The Ghost of Christmas Past
by Zoxx
Summary: Sammy gets a little help with his continuing education. Unwanted help. NOT a christmas fic. Slight violence, mostly mental anguish. Revised Chptr 10.
1. Chapter 1

I don't think this has been done yet. And if it has, I'm still doing it. I mean, what the heck...

A little Dean Angst, a little Sammy Torture. Enjoy.

Disclaimer: Sadly I own nothing Supernatural. rats.

**o0o**

Why did he never see these things coming? Why was he, who had basically lived his whole life on guard against anything evil, always surprised when things – ok, not things – when Sammy blew up in his face? And stormed out back to their latest motel room, again. And why, why, why was it always right after he made the mistake yet again of mentally congratulating himself for a job well done on his little brother? When he was just thanking whatever deity might exist that he'd managed to spare Sammy some of the same awful choices and situations that he'd had to face as the older one, the responsible one. When he was thinking gratefully that while Sammy had had much of the same awfulness happen, at least he made sure that Sam had had some options; that it wasn't all bad.

But apparently it was. All bad. Sammy's latest rant just outside the bar had been about, what else? not being 'normal'; not having had a 'normal' childhood. About no 'normal' seven year-olds having to learn knife wielding and throwing; about no 'normal' ten year-old learning to fire a colt .45; about the dubious nature of the Winchester family values that praised lying, theft and cheating. All brought on by yet again, not having a 'normal' birthday.

Nothing new there.

Ok, maybe he shouldn't have teased Sammy by pretending to forget his birthday, maybe he should have just given him his present first thing this morning and not dragged it out. Maybe he was being an asshole, but…

"You're not being an asshole. He is."

Dean was too well-trained to visibly flinch, but the cultured British voice behind him was almost as much of a surprise as Sammy's recent rant had been. Fortunately this surprise was not as unwelcome.

"Chris!" Dean felt a genuine smile cross his face as he watched 'The Ghost of Christmas Past' wince at the shortening of his name. Dean didn't recognize 'Chris' so much by his appearance as his appearance changed based on whomever he was real for; Dean recognized him by the sarcastic smirk, caustic wit and by the ever present unholy gleam of promised retribution in his eyes. Ok, and by the fact that he had been pulled out of time again – it was definitely a sensation you did not forget: the bar around him continued on, but Dean and his visitor were no longer visible to them and Dean's sudden absence would be an anomaly that would not be allowed to linger in the consciousness of anyone who might have noticed.

Dean gave his… well friend seemed too strong a word for it considering their different occupations, but acquaintance didn't sound like enough either…his pal a smirk as he realized that this time he looked like an extra from Easy Rider, rather than the most fictionalized phantom ever. He looked about as un-Dickensian as might be possible. And the fact that he seemed relaxed and perfectly at ease in a rural Tennessee bar should have been incongruous but wasn't.

Apparently showing selfish misguided misers the error of their ways agreed with him.

"So, trying to redeem a Hell's Angel? I wouldn't have thought that there were many that needed their eyes opened." Dean had run with a couple of Hell's Angels for a while after Sam left for college and after he and his dad split ways, and the people who followed that lifestyle seemed to have fewer illusions than most people he met. Perhaps too many had delusions of being the next Peter Fonda, but still…

"No, I wasn't here on business, I really only do most of my work on Christmas Eve, sometimes a bit of work in the week before Christmas, but other than that I have more days off than anybody other than Santa Claus."

Dean snorted in disbelief.

"You know, it's a sad, sad world out there when there's not enough belief to sustain a children's myth but the tale of dead spirits ganging up on the unenlightened is enough to keep me 'alive'," Chris smirked, "for centuries."

"So where are Huey and Dewey anyway, don't tell me you went on your world wide vacation without them?" Dean knew that kidding aside the three seasonal spirits never were very far from each other.

"No, they're a couple of counties over at a Harley Davidson show. I heard your brother and decided I'd pop over and see if we could finally repay the favour we owe you."

"Repay me?" It took only a moment for the penny to drop.

"No way! No way are you doing your act on Sammy. There's _nothing_ he needs to know. We're fine. Yes, he's pissed at me right now, but when he storms back to the motel room and see his present he'll cool down. We're good."

Dean let out a shaky breath and tried for a teasing grin. "Now if you want to try your mojo on my old man…"

But Dean could see that Chris wasn't buying it. "Dean, our 'mojo' as you so quaintly call it, would never work on your father. At some level the convert has to want to be convinced, has to want to see. Your father has been wearing his blinders for so long they've become his security blanket, he can't let go of his own view of events. He'll never change. Ever. You _know_ this."

And Dean did know this. He knew it instinctively. He'd known it for quite some time, but had only just realized that he'd been secretly hoping that there'd be a day when his father would turn to him and acknowledge Dean's unstinting contributions to their own twisted family. At the sudden utter certainty that it would never happen, that his father would never appreciate all that he had done for him and for his brother growing up, Dean felt once again the familiar mantle of weariness and guilt settle over his frame. He slumped down in his seat. Maybe he hadn't done as good a job with Sammy as he'd thought, if he had then maybe John would..."

"And see, that slump, that train of thought that starts out "maybe I didn't do all that I could…" that thought is why we're gonna do Sammy. It's too late to do anything about your old man, but there's no reason for this blindness to continue to the next generation."

With that the suddenly spooky specter of "The Ghost of Christmas Past' pushed out of his bar seat (or would have if he hadn't gone right through it) and started to dematerialize.

"Wait!"

The righteously indignant ghost stopped.

"You won't tell him everything, right?" Dean didn't want to beg, and would never specify, but there were things that Sammy could never know. Things he'd done when there just wasn't another way. Things that he wasn't proud of, but that he'd do again in a heartbeat. But that didn't mean he ever wanted Sammy to know.

To hell with it. "Plea…"

And Chris looked into Dean's worried expression and into his worn and very old soul and read the mix of shame and pride that fought for dominance and knew that he'd never do anything to taint this tired man in the eyes of his younger brother. The spirit, having full knowledge of all things Past, knew that neither brother was ever going to be ready for full disclosure. Some of those illusions would need to remain intact. He could and would respect Dean's request.

He gently shook his head, understanding and acquiescing to Dean's request.

"No Dean. Trust us. We won't. We won't tell him everything."

And Dean gave a curt nod of thanks. And breathed a silent sigh of relief as the bar coalesced around him once more.

He did trust Chris, and had instinctively since he'd first met the trio over ten years ago. Dean allowed himself a weary chuckle as he signaled the waitress for another drink.

His lips settled into a knowingly wry smirk. Poor Sammy wouldn't know what hit him.

**o0o**

TBC

I think.


	2. Chapter 2

Sorry this next part's short, but we'll get into it next chapter. Promise.

Still don't own anything Supernatural.

**o0o**

Sam was livid. He wanted to hit something, someone. Dean. He wanted to throttle his older brother. Slowly choke the life…

He took a deep breath as he neared the parking lot of their latest motel. Tried to let go of his anger at his brother. But damnnit Dean infuriated him. Dean, who bought into Dad's propaganda, who never questioned orders, who was always the good soldier, the dutiful son. Didn't he see that his blind obedience got him exactly nowhere? Didn't he see that there had to be more to life than this? How could Dean not see what their father's obsession had already cost them in terms of their fucked up childhoods? How could Dean not see that they should be both out living in suburbia right now, getting together for a barbeque with their wives and 2.3 children? And not have the sum total of both their lives and possessions fit into the trunk of a slightly battered '67 Impala.

But Dean didn't see anything wrong with their lives. He thrived on hunting and on killing as many 'sons-of-bitches' as he could. Their nomadic rootless lifestyle seemed designed for Dean's devil-may-care, swaggering through life attitude. Dean seemed not to be bothered by the crazy reality that substituted for 'normal' in their world.

And damnnit it pissed him off. And not just because Dean epitomized everything that Sammy didn't want to be, and not just because Sam resented his brother for being able to be exactly the kind of son John wanted, and not because Dean made the whole damn thing look easy. Although that last one really did stick in his craw. No, what really pissed Sam off was that Dean didn't seem to resent any of it. Didn't seem bothered by any of it, never got angry at their Dad for depriving them of anything that might be considered normal. Sam would never understand how Dean didn't hate their father, who had never even apologized to his sons for ruining their lives, for taking away any chance for a future and who would never see his sons as anything other than little extensions of his own twisted vendetta.

Sam paused by his brother's beloved Impala, which Dean had left at the motel, parked in the shade, of course, as the bar was only a block and a half away, and wondered whom he was more angry with: Dean for accepting their twisted take on reality so readily; or himself for never accepting it, for never fitting in, and for never _wanting_ to fit in.

He once again tried to physically shake his mood off as he continued toward their room. Deep breath in… and out. Thinking like this was going to get him precisely nowhere. It wasn't Dean's fault, it was their father's obsession that had coloured every aspect of their lives from that day in early November 1983. But how could his brother not want anything more? How could he not see that they had been colossally gypped in the grand scheme of things? Dean didn't seem to see anything wrong with their lives, didn't seem to think there was anything out there beyond hunting. Didn't know how intrinsically wrong everything about the Winchester fucked up value system was.

Was he so wrong to want something else? There were people who lived there whole lives without ever having to even pick up a gun, much less deal with anything supernatural. So many people managed to live their entire lives ignorant of the demons and ghosts that walked among them. He sighed as he reached their room.

All he had wanted for his birthday was a 'normal' day - that would be the perfect day. No hunting, no ghosts, no research. Nothing paranormal or supernatural. Just something mundane, ordinary.

Whatever that was. He shook his head as he searched his pockets for his motel keyring. At least Dean hadn't forgotten his birthday, he'd just been yanking his chain. As usual. But when was Dean ever going to see that his baby brother wasn't a baby any more, when was he ever going to realize that Sam wasn't Sammy any more? And when was he going to wake up to the fact that Sam was going to leave, needed to leave, as soon as this thing was over, needed to put all this behind him and find out what could be 'normal' for him?

And where was his key? Damnnit, could this day get any worse?

Sam was taken completely unawares as an apparition grabbed him by the back of his jacket and shoved him _through_ the motel room door.

Yes, apparently it could.

Shit.

**o0o**

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

Sammy meet 'Chris'

I still don't own anything Supernatural. Sigh.

Just fyi there won't be a new post til Monday.

**o0o**

Sam whirled around, automatically assuming a defensive stance, only to find himself facing off against… nothing.

A dry chuckle was heard from behind him. Sam turned again, wishing he had something more substantial on his person than his Swiss army knife. And instinctively, intuitively with a learning absorbed over a lifetime, wished his big brother was here.

Lounging on the end of the closer bed to the door was a ghost that looked like an extra from "The Outsiders" but with better hair. He seemed to be young and cocky, with a knowing smirk that reminded Sam briefly of his absent sibling.

Before Sam could say anything, or figure out how to get to the weapons in his duffle bag, the ghost stood up and held up his hands in a non-threatening manner.

"Whoa, there, Sammy. We're not here to hurt you." The ghost made as if to move towards Sam when Sam put up his hands to stop him.

"First of all, who are you, why are you here and who is 'we'? And it's Sam." Sam normally didn't deliberately bait the ghosts and poltergeists they encountered – that was Dean's job – but he was still pissed off at both his brother and now by being assaulted in his own room. This just wasn't his day…

"Ok," the ghost intoned, his voice dropping down a register and somehow producing an echoing effect: "I AM THE GHOST OF CHRISTMAS PAST." The ghost grinned at Sam's disbelieving reaction. Even without the presence of his youngest brother the ghost could predict what Sammy's next words would be; he was after all Dean's brother.

"Dude, it's July!"

Yep, these two were definitely brothers. Ok, time to enlighten the masses.

"Yes, I'm aware of the passage of time, I know what month it is, and myself and my siblings were on vacation when we heard you bitching and moaning and decided to help your brother out."

"Help Dean? Listen, whoever you are, if you think Dean needs any help you're wrong. He doesn't. And if you are supposedly helping him, then why are you attacking me? And why us anyway? Did we win some kind of poltergeist consolation prize of a visit from the three most over-rated, done-to-death spirits in all of literature and movies and television?" Sam was getting pretty pissed again dealing with yet another interfering know-it-all who thought they knew anything about him and his family. He'd never liked dealing with the well-intentioned teachers and social workers, and nosey neighbours, he didn't need more grief from beyond. And apparently they were on Dean's side. Figures.

"You've been hanging out with your brother too long. He's starting to rub off on you. And proof, you require proof? Well, even though it _is_ July, I am called the Ghost of _Christmas _Past so let's start there shall we? Do you want to walk through the door again, that really is my best effect?" And without giving Sam a chance to answer he was being pulled through the motel room door again.

But instead of the sweltering heat of a Tennessee summer, Sam was pulled into a tiny, dingy living room he didn't recognize that contained three figures he did recognize. Well only one he really recognized as there were almost no baby pictures of either brother, but if that was John then that goofy looking tow-hair kid must have been his brother at about four and himself in his dad's arms at five months or so. He and his ghostly companion were invisible witnesses to the scene unfolding.

"This was the first Christmas after your mother died. And the first of many crushing life lessons that your brother was forced to learn."

The voices of his family, which had previously been somewhat muted, could now be heard.

"But how will Santa find us if we're living in someone else's home? He won't know how to find us." Big hazel eyes were pleading with his father to make everything alright. But those pleading eyes were destined to be denied. With his wife's inexplicable death still too raw in his suddenly and completely bereft soul, John Winchester couldn't deal with his son who continued to live in a fantasy world. That had to stopped now.

"Dean, there's no such thing s Santa Claus, he's just made up. He's not real, son."

Tears had spilled over and four-year-old Dean's lips were trembling. "N-not really real? But I s-saw him, and I w-wanted him to bring M-mommy back."

John couldn't deal with this. Not now, maybe not ever. "Dean, I've told you before Mommy's not coming back! And Santa Claus isn't real." John took a deep breath in, and attempted to soften his tone. "Champ, we don't have time to believe in things that aren't real any more. There is no Santa Claus, there are not gonna be a lot of presents this year and it's just you me and Sammy ok? We'll take care of each other."

And John, in a move Sam couldn't recall ever seeing, pulled his older son into a hug as Dean cried into his shoulder. Both father and son were mourning for the loss of one woman; the father was also mourning the forced loss of innocence of his son, but Santa Claus was a luxury they could not indulge any more.

"That Christmas your father gave your brother a couple of Hot Wheels cars and a book he'd picked up in a drugstore, you got a blanket and a teething ring. And Dean's first gift to you was his stuffed tiger that you liked to chew on the ear of, and a picture one of the fireman had given him of his mom from the rubble of your house for your father. I believe your father still has that picture in his wallet."

Sam looked around as the view around him faded away. He and the Ghost of Christmas Past, if that's who this was, were standing once again outside the motel room door. No one seemed to take any note of Sam and spectral visitor.

"Jeez, with the amount of bragging your brother does, I'd have thought you'd be smarter. They can't see you cause I've pulled you out of time. Haven't you read your Dickens?"

"Yes, I have and I can't say I remember a denim-clad ghost appearing in the middle of July trying to teach anyone the true meaning of Christmas. And I don't think that there's anything you can tell me that I don't already know. I know our lives sucked, you don't have to tell me that. Dad and Dean never even let me believe in Santa Claus ever, so you're not breaking my heart here."

"Ok, Mr. So-Sure-You-Know-It-All, let's try this one." With that the ghost once again reached for Sam.

"Do we have to keep going through the door?"

"It's not like you have your key, Sammy, so this way it is."

Sam's exasperated cry of "It's SAM!" was lost as they emerged into yet another motel room. This one Sam did recognize, they'd spent about six months in this one, it was on the outskirts of Tulsa. Sam had been five and had just started school that year. Their dad had been absent Sam now recalled, this was their first Christmas without their dad. He remembered being afraid and wanting their dad, but all nine-year old Dean would say was that Dad would be home soon. He remembered this Christmas, his father might not have been there, but he'd obviously had left his bases covered as Sammy remembered receiving the transformer he had wanted and a easy-to-read book on the planets. Dean had got him a Power Ranger action figure and a colouring book with puzzles and mazes. He had made Dean a drawing in kindergarten that he had carefully hidden under his bed for his big brother.

Sam smiled to himself anticipating a good memory unfolding. But the memory didn't start with young Sammy's early morning pounce on his brother's bed, it seemed to be late at night, on Christmas Eve, and Sammy was asleep in his bed, but Dean was seated at the table that doubled as their kitchen table with what Sam recognized as his presents and some old newspapers and coloured comics. Dean, at nine, looked short and scrawny and tired and too careworn to only be nine. As Sam watched he realized that Dean was wrapping his presents from his dad and forging his name. Sam wondered if his dad had even bought the presents himself.

"Dean had already saved for your present and for your dad's gift but when your dad went AWOL a week and a half before Christmas, your brother, not knowing when he'd be back had to come up with a contingency plan. He'd had been saving for a new knife but he used that money to make your Christmas as normal as he could."

Sam and his own personal tour guide watched as Dean carefully placed Sam's presents on his bed. Sam smiled at the care his brother was taking of him. He expected the memory to fade around him then, but apparently there was one more moment to bear witness to. Young Dean had gone back to the table and carefully wrapped one of his math books, and then tore the paper off the book. He did the same with his metal pencil box that he used for school. Sam watched perplexedly as Dean placed the torn papers on the end of his bed. Dean then clean up the papers, and started to do the dishes. The Ghost of Christmas Past was watching Sammy watch the memory and was aware of the exact moment that the awareness of Dean's duplicity rose to the surface of Sammy's conscious.

"I can't believe how long the "I already opened my gifts from Dad" line worked on you. Fortunately your dad came home two days later and Dean was off the hook for pre-teen parenting duties. Your dad was around for the Christmas after that but he would have let it pass as just another day if it hadn't been for your brother's insistence."

The smug spirit watched as Sam's eyes narrowed at the perceived dig to his relationship with his brother. 'Chris' decided it was time to move on.

"It seems your brother spent a lot of time and effort trying to make your life as 'normal' as possible. Let's keep moving shall we?"

And before Sam could defend himself, before he could explain that he already _knew_ how much Dean had done for him, he was whisked away to yet another memory.

He was getting heartily sick of Mr. Christmas Past.

**o0o**

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: I have no idea if the boys have been given middle names in canon yet. I just looked up names til I found ones I liked the meaning of.

I still own nothing supernatural.

**o0o**

"Wait a second, just stop."

And to his amazement, Sam found himself on the inside of his current motel room, with the Ghost of Christmas Past just looking at him with exasperation.

"Look Mr. Christmas Past…"

"Call me Chris, it's easier. It's what your brother calls me."

"Ok, _Chris_," Wow a lot of sarcasm could be packed into two little words. "What exactly are you trying to prove here, where did you meet Dean and why are you bothering me? I _know_ what our lives were like, and I get that Dean had it harder than me being the older one. So I don't need your ghostly version of Show-and-Tell to get me out of my 'pissy mood' to quote my brother. I'm _allowed_ to be ticked off, I have a right to be angry and if you know my brother at all, you'll know that he specializes in pushing people's buttons. Mine especially, so if I'm pissed there's probably a good reason and we don't need you to run interference for us!"

"Wow. I can see we have our work cut out for us. First of all, we're here for a little Dean 101, secondly your brother helped us out of a trap that we'd accidentally stumbled into many years ago and really helped my youngest sibling out a lot. And what can I say – he intrigued us. And yes we've met your brother, we know you're 'pissed' – you really need to work on expanding your vocabulary – and yet it seems to us that we know him better than you. Hence the ghostly version of 'Show-and-Tell."

Sam was about to correct the sanctimonious spirit when all of a sudden he couldn't move, couldn't talk.

"Neat trick, hun? Let's see what was your current list of grievances? Oh yes, knife-wielding at seven, gun training at ten and life is generally unfair. It seems awfully convenient of you to have blocked out that you _wanted_ to learn to throw knives at age seven as you wanted to emulate everything your big brother did and to shut you up and to keep you occupied your brother passed along the lessons your father taught him. You're also conveniently overlooking the fact that Dean's training you went _against_ your dad's wishes – he thought you were too young – imagine that - and that in fact Dean was initially in trouble for showing you how to throw a knife.

"And while you did learn to shoot at ten when did you learn to do laundry, to do dishes, to cook? Oh that's right, you didn't. Dean did. It seems to me that Dean changed his first nappy – diaper to you yanks – at four, did laundry for the first time at five – what a disaster that was – and took on many of the domestic chores by the time he was six. Chores which included looking after his baby brother. Oh not by himself, your Dad didn't start letting Dean watch you himself til he was eight. But in those early days your dad was still drinking himself to sleep most nights, so little Deano had a lot to cope with. Let's take a look, shall we?"

And damnnit if their current motel room wasn't dissolving into a tiny bedroom with a young Dean just finished changing a squalling Sam. Dean was standing on a wooden chair which was pushed up against a changing table. The room was small and sparsely furnished and it was clearly late at night or early morning as single ceiling light in the room barely intruded on the dark subdued feeling of the adjoining hallway and rooms. It was yet another temporary home that Sam didn't remember.

Dean must have been five since his younger self did not look even a year old yet. Dean looked tired and was yawning himself as he tried to quiet his younger brother. Young Dean was holding a still screaming Sam who was obviously teething and was flailing tiny arms as his big brother tried to comfort him.

Dean was shushing his brother while swaying and patting him on the back. None of this was any comfort to his brother whose cheeks were flushed and whose little mouth was puckered and drooling. Five-year-old Dean was obviously at a loss as to what to do for his brother. Baby Sam found a solution of his own by sucking on one of his brother's fingers. Dean sat down on the wooden chair that he'd recently been standing on and enjoyed the respite from the crying. It looked like baby Sammy was about to go back to sleep, his eyes fluttering closed, when Dean tried to unobtrusively extricate his finger from his brother's tender teeth. Mistake. As soon as he took his finger away young Sammy woke up and started crying. Young Dean was getting frustrated and yelled at his brother to 'Stop crying!' but young Sammy was impervious to his brother's demands. Dean reluctantly stuck his finger back in his brother's mouth, but was obviously getting impatient with his brother and was searching the room for some other solution.

Sam and the Ghost of… sorry, Chris, watched as a lightbulb obviously went off in the older brother's tired brain. Five-year-old Dean took his baby brother, still sucking on the soothing index finger of his brother, and carried him down some wooden stairs and past the living room where their father was asleep on the couch (having slept through Sammy's cries and Dean's yelling) and into a small but tidy kitchen. Dean had to put Sam down in his playpen, which immediately started the screaming again, and pushed a vinyl padded kitchen chair up against one of the counters. He then climbed onto the counter top and opened an upper cupboard and extracted a clear bottle half full of amber liquid. He carefully set this on the counter and climbed down. He then proceeded to bring the partially drank bottle of Jack Daniels towards his brother's playpen, towards his still screaming younger brother. He was just carefully using both hands to uncap the bottle when from behind him, his father's voice suddenly intruded into this bizarre nighttime tableau.

"Dean William Winchester! What are you doing? Put that bottle down, this instant!"

'But Sammy won't stop crying. And I want him to stop." Tired hazel eyes, bright with tears of frustration, turned to their father, carefully holding the bottle, imploring him to understand. "And this always makes you go to sleep and not wake up til the next day. So it will make Sammy go to sleep too. It will work, Daddy, you never wake up, even when I yell really loudly, so Sammy will too. Please Daddy. He won't stop crying. Please?"

And Sam, watching the scene, would have laughed at his brother's ingenious, if unorthodox, solution if it were not for the pain that his brother's pleading up-turned face caused in his father's tired bloodshot eyes. Pain that was only visible for an instant, but was so real and so cutting that Sam was shocked at his own visceral response to Dean's anguished pleas and his father's shattering guilt. God his family was fucked up.

"Watch, Sam. Pay attention, you may learn something."

Sam, resenting Chris' interference, barely glanced at the insistent spirit and focused again on his father, who had gently plucked the bottle from Dean's shaking hands, and then leaned down to pick up his younger self, who was still crying, and was trying to calm Sam while dealing with his earnest older son.

"You can't give a baby alcohol Dean, he's too little. It's not good for him. It would make him sick."

"It makes you sick too Daddy, but you're ok in the morning, Sammy would be ok in the morning too, he just needs to go to sleep." Dean's pleading was rapidly turning into whining. All three were tired.

And Sam watched, as all the energy seemed to drain from his father as he slid down the wall to sit with Sammy on his lap, now sucking on his father's little finger while Dean leaned into his father's shoulder.

"You're right Dean. It does make you sleepy and hard to wake up. But that's not a good thing. I do it…"

And John couldn't think of a good enough reason any more. He knew why he drank each night, knew he needed the soporific effect to quiet the horrible vision of his wife's burning body each night, but to be so out of it that Dean had to try to take matters into his own hands… He already relied on his rock-steady older soon for too much, and while he might be there physically, he couldn't abandon his son nightly just to escape his own demons leaving Dean and Sammy to fend for themselves. He was just so tired of it all.

But obviously so was Dean. And while none of this was fair, he was supposed to be the adult here.

John looked at his sons, a new resolve forming. For his sons, for the sake of his remaining family. They were all that each other had.

"Dean, I'm not going to drink any more, from now on. Ok, Champ? It's not good for me and it's not good for Sammy. We'll get Sammy some medicine tomorrow to make his teeth better and then we'll all take care of each other. Ok, tiger?

"Ok, Dad," yawned a very sleepy Dean, unaware of the momentous decision his improvised efforts at parenting had prompted. He was now all but asleep on his father's shoulder. "I'll look after you and Sammy too."

And as the two boys succumbed to sleep with their Dad on the kitchen floor, Sam and Chris were gently pulled from the bittersweet memory.

**o0o**

TBC 


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: Still not mine.

**o0o**

Sam had had enough. Back in his motel room again – unfortunately locked in with the most infuriating pedagogue – how's that for improved vocabulary? - he'd had the misfortune to encounter. 'Chris' hadn't been very forthcoming with the details of his meeting Dean for the first time, and apparently he was he doing Dean a favour – yah right – but Sam was going to wring Dean's thick neck for ever saving such a colossal pain in the ass.

And he'd thought _Dean_ was being a hard case today. Happy fuckin' birthday, Sammy.

He rotated his neck muscles to alleviate some of the tension gathered there and tried to gather his thoughts. He deliberately unclenched his hands and rolled his shoulders. He'd dealt with interfering old busy-bodies before. Granted they weren't usually centuries old persistent figments of a literary imagination. But he could do this. He'd had to at regular intervals throughout his childhood when a well-intention teacher would wonder why little Sammy was bruised, or why Dean was limping. Idiots, all of them. He let out a heartfelt sigh, took a deep breath in, held it, exhaled. If he could just get the Ghost of Yesteryear to listen to him. Deep breath in… Calm and collected. Calm and collected…

He tried again.

"Look, I know all this, alright? I get the whole 'Dean got Dumped on by Dad' routine, been there done that, got the t-shirt, ok? I know he was saddled with me and he did the best he could, I was _there_. And while apparently we _do_ have all the time in the world Mr. So Last Year, can we get to whatever the point is? These Hallmark moments are starting to get me all teary-eyed."

Oops, apparently he was not as calm and collected as he'd hoped. Oh well, Mr. Warm-n'-Fuzzy-Memories could deal.

"You know what I find to be the saddest thing about all this? NO, don't answer that.

"Do you have any idea how proud Dean is of you, how much, in his own back-handed way, he brags about you to others? I know he is not the most open or expressive guy, but he _does_ say it, usually at the risk of a dreaded 'chick flick' moment. And, ok, admittedly he does better when you're not face to face – that little phone conversation when you temporarily parted ways earlier this year comes to mind – but he is proud of you and he would do and has done almost anything for you. And for all that he's always saying how smart you are, and how you're the scholar in the family, you really don't get it, do you? Not much of a scholar of the Social Sciences, are you? I think you should have included at least one Psychology course on your curriculum there, Sammy boy. You've not only missed the point, you've missed the entire bloody boat, and you're wasting a totally unique educational opportunity."

Sam started to stalk forward to refute the supposedly superior spirit's rambling rhetoric when Chris once again stopped him; this time with a decidedly unfriendly spectral arm somehow barring his path.

"Ah, ah, ah… remember I can keep you immobile any time I want. It's still my turn to talk. Now where was I? Oh yes.

"I don't think, Sammy, that most of your issues are really with your brother, nor do I think that his are with you. In fact his aren't with your dad either. Both of your sets of issues involve your perceived relationship of your brother to your father and how wrong it is. All would be right between just the two loving brothers, but as soon as either Evil-Drill-Sergeant Dad or Stubborn-Inflexible Dad appears, depending on which son you talk to, all is wrong with the universe. And yet you barely understand your own relationship with your father. Dean claims, and rightly I believe upon further examination of the evidence, that you and your father are too much alike.

"But even that's not the bloody point. The point, as I'm sure you're breathlessly waiting to hear, is that I can show you what you don't know, I can illustrate in the truest possible sense how your 'fucked-up' family works. But it's a lesson that's wasted on someone who's not willing to learn, who thinks that there is nothing to learn."

Chris paused in his oration. Sometime during his rant he'd seamlessly morphed into an extra from Star Trek. And not just any extra, Sam belatedly realized; he'd morphed into Q. Q, the omnipotent being that plagues Captain Jean-Luc Picard to no end. Sam rolled his eyes at the lack of subtlety. He was beginning to think that maybe 'Chris' _was_ a friend of Dean's. They certainly shared similar senses of humour. Although as far as he knew, Dean had never been a Trekkie.

Chris seemed to be momentarily out of steam, so Sam deemed it safe to get his two cents in. Calm and collected… calm and collected…

"I get that you know all things _passé_," he simpered snidely at the epitome of yester-Trek, "but the jury is still out on how well you know my family. But since the element of choice is missing in my life right now, since I'm stuck with you until you've presented your closing arguments, let's get on with this shall we?"

Hmm, still not particularly calm, but much more collected. It was good to know that those four years at college hadn't been wasted.

Chris shook his head at the doubting Thomas before him. He and his siblings had been so sure they could help; had been sure they could make Sammy _see_. Had been sure that it wasn't too late for the youngest Winchester, but now he was beginning to doubt. Maybe Sam was already too much his father's son. Maybe it _was_ too late.

Well he could keep trying. Because of their… unusual… family upbringing there were many moments both 'normal' and paranormal that he could summon to demonstrate that this family unit worked, in it's own unique way, largely due to the efforts of the older son: a natural caregiver and peacekeeper who'd been molded into so much more. Chris had been deliberately shying away from the more supernatural of their experiences, as while their father's quest coloured everything they did, he wanted Sammy to see that the Winchesters did have strong ties and that it wasn't all bad. And that even when it _was _bad, they had each other – all _three_ of them.

Chris decided. He'd picked a different sort of memory this time. One that once again would show Sam a scene and its consequences – scenes he'd never even imagined. One that would demonstrate both the trust that Dean and John had in each other and the lengths the entire family would go to keep each other safe. He hoped.

He sighed dramatically and with a flourish brought them to the next stop on their spectral excursion.

He just hoped any resulting trauma would be worth it. He hoped.

For once Sam knew exactly where and when they were living just outside of Moscow, Idaho: he was seven (soon to be learning the aforementioned knife wielding) and 'Chris' had alighted on yet another time when John was once again absent.

It seemed that even the home movies of the Dead and Famous suffered from the same old plot lines. He turned knowingly to his companion.

"Seen it already, I know this episode. It's where our father had pulled yet another vanishing act, Dean steps in, for our longest stretch ever and we both somehow made it through the ends of grades two and six respectively. In fact you've already missed some of the highlights: I got sick that spring and Dean had to take me to the hospital in the middle of a bitterly cold February. A feat he somehow managed to do without alerting the authorities as to our temporarily orphaned status by getting a drunk he met outside the hospital to pretend to be our dad. Or the time that we ran out of money so we searched behind a restaurant for leftovers. Or the fact that dad was away long enough to miss Dean's birthday and Easter and the end of the school year completely. Yep. I've seen this one before. Next!'

Chris just stood there, not amused, waiting for Sam to finish his harangue.

"Are you done? Good. Do you know _why_ your father was away so long? He was trying to protect you and Dean. Did you know that your father phoned Dean as often as he could, which yes, even then turned out to be five times in the entire three-and-a-half months. Did you know he sent money in the mail as often as he could? Did you know that while you were missing him, he was coping in the only way he knew how, by trying to lead the hell hounds away from the scent of you boys? Didn't know about the hell hounds did you?" Chris could see that Sam had been shaken out of his certainty; he could see that Sam was trying to assimilate all the new data, but that for the time being it just wasn't computing.

"Hell Hounds? Dean never said… "

"No, he didn't. Your father told him not to. In their own way they tried to shield you from as much of the worst of the supernatural as they could. Yes, I know you were already learning Latin incantations and how to salt-n'-burn, but what seven-year old, already prone to nightmares, needed to know about Hell Hounds? They tried in their own ways, Sam. Even your Drill-Sergeant, Disappearing Dad, tried. Granted they didn't always succeed, and yes, your training and participation was soon to increase, and you were about to be inextricably entrenched, but they were both making the best of a bad situation."

"A bad situation that my father kept voluntarily putting us in. If it weren't for his quest, his damned obsession…"

"And why do you hunt, Sam? You have a degree, you can leave any time, as you've told your brother time and again. You can still have a shot at your precious 'normal', but you're still here chasing ghosts and ghouls. Why is that, Sam?"

And for once, Chris seemed to be genuinely waiting for an answer; the pause wasn't just for dramatic effect in the middle of one of his smug soliloquies.

"I… we still haven't…" Sam faltered to a stop. He turned somber brown eyes to Chris. And found the one word, that still summed up his own journey: "Jess."

And Chris, the previously patronizing poltergeist, suddenly seemed more human, more substantial as he stepped closer to Sam and rested his ghostly hand on top of Sam's shoulder. Sam, of course, felt nothing of the ghost's ephemeral weight, but was comforted by his gesture of support and by the understanding evident in the transparent visage and for the first time thought that Chris might be more than just a casual contact of his brother's; that he and Dean might be exactly what the ghost had claimed: friends.

Chris, on his part, for the first time all day, felt hopeful that Sammy would listen and that the message they were trying to impart would be heard. They hadn't even arrived at the crux of the memory yet, well two cruxes, to be exact, and they had already made immeasurable progress.

Chris thought that while the next memory would shake Sam up, and would venture close to the cordoned off areas of their childhood that Dean had no wish for Sammy to ever glean any knowledge of, it would be worth it to finally make Sammy see, that while the Winchesters were by no means normal, and really weren't ever going to be normal, neither were they something to be run from at the first opportunity. They were undoubtedly a strange family, but they _were_ a family in every way that counted.

Now if he could just get Sammy to have a little faith.

Chris, sensing that Sammy was as ready as he'd ever be, allowed the memory to focus and take shape. Gads, he hoped Sammy was ready for this.

**o0o**

**TBC**


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: I've changed the rating to a T just to be safe. This chapter is definitely darker and mentions stealing and possible although not explored sexual situations. Nothing graphic is described.

If I owned Supernatural… well Dean and Sam would be shirtless, for the flimsiest of reasons, a lot more often just for starters…

**o0o**

Chris had a moment of doubt, which was rare in his line of work – extremely rare. But unlike many of the persons who's pasts he had illuminated over the centuries, he knew Dean, he trusted Dean: Dean was a friend. And Chris didn't have too many of those. And Dean trusted him. Their very first encounter all those years ago it had been Dean that had taught Chris the true meaning of family, and it had been a lesson that Chris and his siblings had never forgotten. He owed Dean. But he owed it to Dean to try to really reach Sammy. And to do that he might have to cross a boundary that Dean would rather have remained intact. But if shocking Sam out of his complacency would get the message through his thick skull…

But he had to do this while respecting Dean's wishes. He didn't want to diminish Dean in Sam's eyes. He wanted to protect both brothers by leaving some of their illusions intact. And so he had opted not to show Dean stealing his first tins of food, nor Dean cutting school to take the bus downtown to beg for money on different street corners in different cities so that he'd have a meager emergency fund for when their dad was inevitably away. Pride was a small price to pay if it meant you could buy more milk and cereal. Dean couldn't do it very often as he had to be wary of concerned adults trying to get him off the streets and into "a good home". Likewise Chris wasn't about to show Sammy the one time Dean got caught attempting to steal a wallet – it was Dean's first and last venture into pick pocketing. Dean hadn't been quick enough to get the wallet without the owner being the wiser. But the owner had taken pity on the poor child and had given the ten-year old boy a stern lecture and a couple of twenties and sent him on his way.

No, what Chris was about to show Sammy was worse than any of those things, much worse. And yet Chris hoped that by showing Sam the lengths his family was willing to go to for him and for each other that maybe Sam would wise up, grow up and finally shut up.

Chris prayed he was doing the right thing. And hoped that Dean could forgive him if he wasn't.

He let the memory unfold around them.

Sam looked around their tiny one-bedroom apartment. It was on the second floor above a small insurance office, and there was only one other unit owned by the insurance salesman who ran the office downstairs. Sam remembered that Mr. Morse as a slick always smiling man who'd always had a candy for young Sammy. But what he remembered most was knowing that Dean didn't like him for some reason, didn't trust him. And if Dean said to steer clear of him, then that was all the instruction Sammy needed. At almost eight-years old he still worshipped his big brother, and whatever Dean said was how it was.

Sam smiled sadly thinking about how simple everything was when Dean could do no wrong.

Oddly, neither boy was anywhere about, and maybe Chris was just using their humble abode as a starting point, as the apartment quickly seeped away to be replaced by their latest school's playground. It was a warm summer evening, and there was Sam playing with Mikey? Mitchell? … Milton, a nine year-old who lived a block down and who hadn't really had any friends his own age before Sam. Man, he'd forgotten about Milton with his wild imagination and his earnest offers of friendship. They were playing pirates on one of the climbing structures. There were other children and their parents playing together and a small group of women standing on the other side of the playground chatting while they watched their kids play. Dean was seated on a bench at the edge of the schoolyard, close enough to be able to watch over Sammy but out of range of well-meaning parents who might wonder where little Sam's mother or father was.

Dean was reading a book on… architecture?… occasionally focusing on Sam to make sure he was ok, and to ascertain that nothing and no one was threatening his safety. Architecture? A book on cars he could understand…

Dean, at twelve, wasn't quite at that awkward stage yet – he wouldn't hit a major growth spurt til next summer – but was an already capable young man, upon whom the mantle of responsibility seemed to rest almost comfortably, and quite naturally; it was evident that he was secure, in his own way, of his role. He was already settling into the role of sometime hunter and soldier and full-time big brother that their father needed him to be.

It was obvious, however, that sitting and reading for yet another evening while Sammy played, would likely not have been his first choice of activities. He was fidgeting on the bench, shifting often and when he looked away from Sammy, scanning their surroundings, making a possible threat assessment, it was evident that he was worried about something. Dean's worry could be read in the shadows lurking in his eyes and in the tense lines of his body, in the way that he never relaxed his vigilance. A stranger happening across him would never recognize the depths of his worries because at twelve Dean was already perfecting his public persona of cocky self-assurance. But the silent watchers could tell that he was stressing about something. Likely where their next meal was coming from, as Sam was fairly certain that their dad wasn't due to return for at least another week if he were judging the memory correctly.

Sam felt a surge of anger at their father. Even if he did have his reasons, it was still a pretty shitty thing to do to a twelve-year old. He was just turning to Chris, when Dean's eyes turned to his brother again. Who was showing Milton how he could swing from rung to rung of an arched metal ladder, clearly showing off his superior climbing skills. And Dean's eyes softened as he proudly watched his baby brother attempt to show Milton just how it was done. The previously shadowed eyes were momentarily infused with a genuine love for the precocious scamp that was his younger brother. Not that Dean would ever say that, of course, but Sam knew, and had always known, that his big brother loved him.

Both the Sam and the young Dean were therefore startled when a voice came from behind Dean as an older man approached the park bench. It was Mr. Morse, their neighbour. Sam relaxed somewhat, but Dean went on high alert. What..?

Mr. Morse had seemed kindly and old to Sam, but the added perspective Chris provided showed him that the insurance salesman was likely in his early forties and while smoothly good looking, his surface charm did not stand up to a closer scrutiny. He suddenly seemed creepy.

"Hello Dean. Out enjoying the evening I see? I've noticed that you and young Sam come here often. Is your father still working late every night?" Mr. Morse obviously didn't buy the carefully fabricated front that John worked nights, as there'd been no sign, sound or sighting of the absent parent for almost three months. As he asked his questions he had seated himself on the bench, just a little too close to Dean, just a mite inside Dean's personal space. He still kept the conversation casual although Dean's refusal to answer him should have told the man that his feigned concern wasn't welcome.

Neither was the hand on Dean's thigh. Dean quickly stood up, dropping the book, and backed away from this man and glanced back towards the park to make sure Sammy wasn't seeing this.

Mr. Morse was aware of how far removed from the other parents and children they were and was aware too that with regards to his brother Dean was vulnerable.

"Come sit down Dean," Dean didn't move. "You don't want to cause a fuss do you? You wouldn't want to be seen pulling that knife that you seem to have your hand on, would you? You wouldn't want the police or worse, Child Services turning up on your doorstep would you? Just sit down and have a nice chat with me."

Dean just glared at the leering salesman sitting nonchalantly on the bench as if molesting young men was a daily occurrence and nothing unusual. And who knows, maybe it wasn't unusual. Without looking back at Sammy Dean reluctantly perched on the extreme edge of the bench.

"Excellent. Come sit a little closer Dean, I won't bite." The smile Morse gave him was patently false and full of arrogant victory as Morse knew he was fully in control of the situation. Silently seething Dean slid closer.

Morse slid into Dean's personal space again. His hand was back on Dean's thigh. Dean gritted his teeth, and silently cursed himself for his own stupidity for not realizing the vulnerability his remote location had left him in. He wouldn't do Sammy any good if he were in juvenile detention center. And while he could break Morse's hold and could certainly inflict major damage on this asshole, he couldn't leave Sammy alone to deal with whatever nosey neighbour or kindly social worker would get involved if Dean got himself arrested. So he sat. And seethed.

"I have a proposition for you, Dean. A simple matter of economics, that I will leave entirely up to you to decide." The hand on his thigh reached up to gently brush across the zipper of his jeans, belying the element of choice offered. "A simple matter of supply and demand. It seems from my observations that you haven't been to the supermarket lately? Are those dollars stretching a little thin, hmm?"

Dean, who knew exactly the contents of their meager cupboard, just glared at this slime ball and moved infinitesimally backwards, trying to get out of reach, but having nowhere to go.

"It's simple, really. In exchange for some" the hand brushed him again "personal services rendered, I will pay you say $40 for an evening, and you will receive my humble gratitude and my personal assurance that Child Services won't turn up. Call it a little insurance policy." Morse chuckled at his own joke. "What do you say, Dean? Do we have a deal?"

Dean said nothing. Just stared with utter hatred into Morse's calculating, leering eyes.

"Well, think it over, Dean. But don't take too long. We wouldn't want you and Sammy to get put into foster care, would we? Being that you're already past the prime adopting age, they'd probably split you and Sammy up, wouldn't you think?" A frisson of fear shivered through Dean at that thought. "I can see you realize I'm only looking out for all of our best interests. You could buy a lot of groceries with forty bucks, and Sammy's a growing boy, isn't he?"

"You leave Sammy outta this!" Dean spat.

"Oh I will, as long as I have something, or should I say some_one _else to amuse myself with, I wouldn't even think of touching Sammy. But you Dean, you interest me. You're so young, and so tough, but I think you have a price, don't you Dean? Everyone does."

With that Morse got up to leave the park.

"I'll be home tonight, Dean. Why don't you come over, after Sammy goes to bed?"

And with that, the coolly arrogant man casually sauntered off. Leaving Dean literally shaking with rage and anger and uncertainty and fear on a bench just a little too far from the safety of the park.

Chris noted that young Dean wasn't the only one shaking. Beside him Sam was shaking too. Shaking in complete denial that the incident could have happened. Shaking in anger that once again their father had left Dean vulnerable – vulnerable in the worst possible way. Shaking that something like this had happened to his brother and he'd never even known, would never have known if 'Chris' hadn't interfered. And shaking because deep down he _knew_ what lengths Dean would go to, to protect him, _knew _what Dean's choice would have been. He knew, but wished he didn't

Maybe….

Sam turned pleading eyes to the specter beside him.

"Tell me he didn't. Tell me Dad came back in time. Tell me he didn't sacrifice his soul just to keep me safe. Please… he didn't do it did he?"

Chris couldn't meet Sam's eyes as the park started to dissolve around them.

Sammy's anguished whispers of denial seemed to linger behind them as they moved towards the next crucial part of that self same memory.

**o0o**

**TBC**


	7. Chapter 7

This chapter deals with sexual situations, but it's more suggestive than graphic. I re-read the ratings guide, and I think we're still within the 'T' boundaries.

Don't own them, would love to, but don't.

**o0o**

"No! I don't want to see this. I can't… he can't… I can't watch this… he didn't… Please…"

It took all of Chris' strength to remain dispassionate and appear unmoved by Sam's tortured pleas. 'Chris' now looked like suspiciously like Mulder from the X-files: the truth _was_ out there. And Sammy _would_ face it, damnnit.

They faded into the boys' bedroom, where young Sammy was sprawled out asleep on top of the covers, and young Dean, dressed in jeans and his favourite denim jacket, was crouched beside the bed, rummaging through a battered suitcase that Sam recognized instantly.

A new fear blossomed in Sam's heart.

"Oh God, tell me he didn't kill him. Tell me that Dean didn't kill that son-of-a-bitch. I mean I want that arrogant asshole to get what he deserves, but Dean shouldn't have had to kill anyone, ever, let alone at the age of twelve and alone."

Chris kept silent; Sam would only learn by watching. It was crucial that he finally see how his family worked. Please God let this work; Chris didn't know if either himself or Sam could take any more of these memories. And there were more hard choices Dean had had to face over the years, but this admittedly was one of the worst.

At Chris' non-answer, Sam was left with no recourse but to watch the memory develop. He shuddered in anticipated horror.

Dean had finished getting his Beretta 9mm out of the suitcase and had checked to make sure it was fully loaded. He locked the battered but sturdy suitcase and put the key back in his pocket. Sam was sure Dean was already wearing his knife, but the jacket concealed it beautifully. He was just putting the Beretta into a homemade but very secure ankle holster: Morse would expect Dean to still have his knife, but the semi-automatic would be an unpleasant surprise.

God, Sam didn't want to see this.

Dean stood for a moment, just watching his softly snoring sibling, his small smile at the sight of Sammy's typical sprawl hardening into a look of fierce determination.

"I'll keep you safe, Sammy," love and determination warring with each other in Dean's serious countenance. Dean took a deep breath, seemingly gathering his strength, straightened his shoulders and without looking back, left their apartment.

"No no no no no no no…" Sam was keeping up a muttered litany of denial, but he was not looking away. If his brother had had to face this, then so could he.

He just wished neither of them had ever had to.

Dean had stopped in front of Morse's door. Chris and Sam were privy to an amazing transformation as Dean employed one of their father's first lessons in survival: camouflage. Dean stood stock-still and let go of the angry warrior and became a nervous frightened child. He radiated fear and uncertainty. He started to tremble, whether in genuine or imagined fear the watchers couldn't tell. Sam had witnessed his brother's ability to be what people expected before, but it was still startling to see. Dean raised a now-trembling hand and knocked timidly on Mr. Morse's door.

Sam found his newly made resolution to watch this for his brother's sake crumbling as Morse opened the door, still as slick, smug and arrogant as ever.

"Do we have to see this? Can't we just skip ahead to the part where Morse is a castrated pile of hurt on the floor? I don't wan…"

And Sammy was frozen again: couldn't talk, couldn't move. Could only watch, dread filling his every fibre.

"I'm glad to see you came to your senses, Dean." Morse, dressed in a short black silk robe loosely belted at the waist to show his tanned smooth chest and matching silk pajama bottoms, practically oozed slime. Dean said nothing; only let his 'cowed child' persona tremble. Dean visibly startled when the apartment door snicked shut behind him. He stepped away from Morse who was crowding into his personal space, ushering him into his swank living room, replete with dark mahogany furniture, black leather sofas and a black leather and chrome chaise lounge… were those handcuffs dangling from the chrome supports?

Both Dean and the watching Sam gulped audibly.

True to Morse's arrogant, narcissistic nature, one wall was fully mirrored and the rooms lighting was all focused on the chaise: it looked like the setting for a cheap porn video. Sam could see Dean taking in the entire room, marking out the exits to the other rooms and likely noting anything that could be used as a weapon. But other than an antique mantle clock and a couple of chrome table lamps with corrugated white lampshades by his computer desk, there was little in the way of knickknacks or ornaments.

Morse had loosened the belt of his robe as he advanced on the still silent Dean. "Come now, Dean, I think it's time you lose some of those clothes and that knife you have tucked into your jeans." The young Dean reacted to both Morse's closeness and words by taking a step backwards, his hand automatically going to the knife at the back of his belt. "Now Dean, we both know that you can't afford to bring any attention to yourself and young Sammy, and that attacking me, would put both you and Sam at risk of being split up… permanently. You don't want that, do you?"

Morse's thinly veiled threat, poorly disguised as solicitous concern sickened Sam. And obviously didn't impress Dean, who never-the-less was slowly taking off his jean jacket and took his favourite hunting knife off of his belt and deliberately put both down on the low coffee table – obeying Morse's directions but unobtrusively leaving the knife within easy retrieval range.

Morse was obviously getting turned on by the power he had over Dean, was enjoying the defiance edged with fear that he saw on Dean's face.

"Do you have any other weapons I should know about, Dean? Any other hidden traps that I should be wary of? Perhaps I should frisk you… thoroughly, of course"

Sam stared in mute horror as Morse ran his hands over Dean's legs and torso, paying particular attention to his jeans' pockets. Both front and back. Fortunately Morse was more interested in frisky business and not the frisking itself as he missed Dean's ankle holster. Sam breathed a sigh of relief and tried to tune Morse's slimey pornographic monologue out as he began to describe in graphic, twisted detail what he wanted to do to Dean. But Chris' powers meant that wasn't nearly as successful as he'd liked it to be.

Morse was getting down to business. His robe was off, Dean's button down shirtfront was open, and Morse was just reaching for the button on Dean's denims. "Feel free to make as much noise as you want, Dean, the walls are thick and there's only your brother to hear. Scream if you like. In fact, please do…"

But it was Morse who screamed in pain, as Dean finally acted.

Dean, who had dropped to one knee as Morse sank down on the chaise lounge, had brought his Beretta up, handle first, and had slammed it into Morse's groin with as much force as he could muster: which seeing as Dean had more weapons and combat training that any twelve-year old had a right to have, was considerable. Morse toppled off the chaise in a satisfying heap of agony.

Dean then calmly pried one of Morse's hands off himself and snapped his wrist into one of the cuffs on the chaise lounge. Then still with angry focused determination went back and quietly retrieved his jacket and knife, carefully resetting the knife in his belt and then putting his jacket back on.

All of this went unremarked by Morse who was still cradling himself and moaning on the floor. Dean slowly walked back to Morse and stood standing over him, looking at the pathetic scumbag on the floor and at the gun still in his hand. Dean slowly brought the gum to bear on Morse.

Sam, still frozen, still watching, was almost certain that Dean wouldn't shoot Morse. Almost. And he thought he saw, as he watched, Dean come to the same conclusion. But what… Dean, never relaxing his guard, crouched down a safe distance away from Morse, and for the first time spoke.

"You think you know anything about me and my family, asshole? You think that just cause we're on our own we're defenseless prey to sick perverts like you? You think just cause there's no adult around we're unprotected. Well you're wrong, bitch. You know nothing about me or my family. My Dad is out there protecting us right now, and before he left he made sure that I was as ready as I could be to handle any monsters that this fucked-up world may throw at us. And that includes sick twisted fucks who get their rocks off raping young boys."

Morse was still in too much pain to really focus on Dean, but he was gradually unfurling. Dean was watching him minutely the entire time.

"And if you think I'm afraid of you talking to the police or the social workers then I guess you're dumber than you look. Cause I'm going to take my own insurance with me."

Both Morse and the two silent spectators jumped in surprise as the Beretta fired.

But Morse wasn't missing any body parts, but the full-length one-way glass mirror shattered in a gratifying shower of shards as the tripod and video camera behind it were revealed.

Morse was now sitting up, struggling against the handcuff, grabbing his discarded robe, scrabbling for the pocket where the key… Dean stopped his frantic motions with a deceptively gentle admonishment as he leveled the semi-automatic in Morse's direction.

"Un-uh." And Dean leaned forward, and was viciously gratified to see Morse lean away from him, as Dean dangled the previously pocketed key that he had lifted from Morse when he was lost in his own power trip earlier. "I'll just keep this. And this." And Dean walked around to the revealed hidden room and ejected the cassette from the camcorder and picked up a VHS tape marked with 'Spenser' on it.

Spenser was the name of Milton's thirteen-year-old brother.

"no."

Chris wordlessly let his hold on Sammy go as Sam once again gave voice to his own pain of having to know this, of Dean having to know this, and for the vaguely remembered older brother of his young friend, Milton, who'd hadn't had as many options as Dean had had. Sam was, for the first time in a very long time, suddenly and intensely grateful that their Dad _had_ taught them to protect themselves and that they could take care of themselves in almost any situation. Even at the ages of twelve and almost eight. Sam shuddered at the pain that had been inflicted on so many by such a twisted 'monster' and instinctively wrapped his arms around his himself, physically trying to seek some small solace in the face of such anguish. In the midst of the memory, Dean was preternaturally calm, his anger giving him an angry, deadly focus.

Dean brought his gun to bear on Morse again.

"You sick fuck. I should shoot you right now, and save the world a lot of grief." Dean's voice had gotten quietly icy. Dean's audience, both past and present, was chilled by the cold spark of hatred evident in the twelve-year-old's eyes. "You don't deserve to live, but dying would be too easy." Morse was quivering in terror, his previous excitement having been lost in the terrifying reversal of roles. Looking into Dean's harsh gaze he found only cold hard judgment. He knew he had somehow made a colossal mistake, had chosen the wrong child.

Dean echoed that sentiment a moment later in the silence that followed his second gun-shot. "You picked the wrong family to mess with."

Morse started silently sobbing great undignified gulps of air as Dean finally let himself out of the apartment.

Sam was… stunned, horrified and proud of his big brother all at once. His limbs were able to move but his brain was stuck: he couldn't process it all. Dean hadn't… he didn't just… He turned supplicating eyes to Chris, needing to know, but not able to ask.

And Chris, who hadn't enjoyed the memory any more than any of the participants, took pity on Sammy. "No Sam, he didn't. He carefully aimed between his legs, not hitting a damn thing, but literally scaring the crap out of Morse"

"What happened, how did Morse get out of it, what happened to Spenser? And what did Dean tell my Dad? And why didn't I know any of this?" Sam was finally regaining his equilibrium, and found that he now couldn't stop the questions he had been previously afraid to ask.

"Well I can answer most of your questions if we look at what happened when your Dad finally took care of the hell hounds and returned home. I think you'll find that justice was served."

And as the broken figure of Morse still cuffed to his expensive leather chair faded from their sight, Sam allowed himself to cling to Chris' last words as a drowning man clings to a life preserver.

"Justice was served."

It would be ok. It would all be ok.

It would never be the same again. But it would be ok.

He hoped.

**o0o**

**TBC**


	8. Chapter 8

Neither Dean nor Sam were among my recent birthday presents… so they're still not mine…

**o0o**

They were once again in the schoolyard playground, only this time there were no other kids about and Dean was putting Sammy through running and climbing drills, although he disguised them as races and playing tag. Dean, a week after Morse's attempted molestation, seemed the same to Sam's watchful eye, didn't seem changed or affected by his near brush with a human monster.

The older, supposedly wiser, Sam who was watching, couldn't believe that Dean was training him just as hard as his father ever did, but whereas Sammy whined and complained about their father's methods, Dean's sneakier means only brought smiles and shouts of joy from his younger counterpart. Sam couldn't believe how well indoctrinated into their father's mini soldier routine Dean was.

And Sam couldn't believe how pissed off he was that their Dad's agenda had even coloured their play time. But what really burned was how he'd never noticed it before, how he'd never thought about all the subtle, less tangible things Dean had taught him. Yes, Dean had taught him the obvious things such as tying his shoelaces, how to read, and the gamut from knife throwing to how to hotwire a car. And he'd also taught Sam basic 'how-to-be-a-Winchester' survival skills: how to hide their crazy lifestyle; how to deal with well meaning teachers and nosey neighbours who only wanted to help, but who would never understand; how to blend in, cover up and lie. But Dean had both deliberately and just by example reinforced their dad's training of stoic compliance, and had made Sam's eventual introduction to hunting seem heroic and vital as Sammy had still wanted to do everything Dean did. Dean had been Sammy's primary role model – for better or for worse – thank god mullet rock wasn't contagious or hereditary – and as a result could adapt and adjust to some of the most bizarre and constantly changing circumstances.

And Dean had taught him about family. Many of the friends he'd had over the years had commented on how cool a big brother he'd had, and how they'd wish their brother or sister would take such good care of him or her. And while during his teen years he'd mostly been resentful of Dean's hovering and their dad's rules, he still knew many of his fellow teens who'd gotten themselves into trouble because they'd had no one to turn to when they needed advice or just someone to listen, or no one to run to when the going got tough. But he'd had Dean. And he'd always known it.

Because, outside of university, almost all of his own happy memories had Dean at their core. And while Sam knew that their father loved them, he'd also come to realize during those four years away that _Dean_ was the glue in their family; Dean was the link that Sam and John needed to make their family work. John and Sam _were_ too much alike: they were both takers; Dean was a giver. Dean was definitely no angel: he could be as irritating and as short-tempered and closed off as anyone else; and while Dean thought Sammy had the market cornered on being stubborn, Sam knew that Dean had made tenacious bull-headedness an absolute art form. But Dean was a caregiver at heart and he had instinctively given everything he had to being what both his father and brother needed: their family had functioned as long as he could be both the much-vaunted 'good little soldier' and the often taken-for-granted big brother/protector. It was when John and Sam started to want different things, when they each wanted Dean to support _their_ views and _only_ their views, that it had all fallen apart.

Sam glanced at Chris standing beside him, for once not smirking or smug, just simply observing the two young Winchesters with a faint smile gracing his translucent features, and suddenly and indelibly Sam believed that Dean _had_ taught Chris the true meaning of family. Because Dean understood family, even if and especially when it came in such an unusual package. He badly wanted to meet Chris' siblings, and not for what they could show him – he was getting heartily sick of Chris' teaching methods – as undeniably valuable as they were – but he wanted to see the ghostly family interact, wanted to see Dean's influence on someone else, even if it was on non-corporeal works of literature given substance.

But first things first. Where was their father? If Sam was remembering correctly he should be… ah there he was.

John Winchester looked haggard and tired, and much older than his age. He had several butterfly band-aids on a cut on his forehead and his partially closed jean jacket covered the bandages under his torn and tattered t-shirt. He had stopped at the entrance to the schoolyard and just watched as Sammy laughingly taunted Dean from the top of the climbing structure that Dean had chased him up. Sam watched as their father's perpetually guarded eyes momentarily softened as he watched his sons train. John's gaze was full of love and pride and it staggered Sam with its intensity. It was certainly a more open and honest look than Sam could ever remember his father sporting. And as he watched the look vanished to be replaced by the soldier's mask that Sam knew and loathed. His father's previously loving gaze hardened as he assessed his sons' abilities.

Across the playground Dean had seen his father and had instinctively stiffened his posture and had stopped teasing Sammy. He didn't immediately come over to John as Sammy was still at the top of the climbing structure, or give any visible clue that he'd seen him, but little Sammy knew that there was only one person who could make Dean 'go G.I. Joe' and he eagerly scanned the playground, squealing with delight when his eyes lit upon his long absent father.

He clambered down off the structure and calling to his brother ran towards their father.

"Dean, Dean! Dad's back, Dean! You said he'd come back soon and he's here!' At almost eight young Sam already knew that Winchesters didn't do public displays of affections, so he skidded to a halt right in front of his dad, but there's only so much restraint an excited boy could muster. He bounced on the balls of his feet, trying desperately to 'go G.I. Joe' himself, but failing utterly in his sheer delight to see his dad again. When his father put his hand on Sammy's shoulder to calm him down, Sammy gave into temptation and threw his arms around his dad. His father never flinched or winced just allowed the hug for a moment before he gently pried Sammy off of him.

Dean had followed more sedately and while he had to have been as delighted and even more so utterly relieved to finally be free of parental responsibility, he was in full soldier mode and greeted his father with a nod and waited for his father's current needs to become evident. His young but highly trained eyes did not miss his father's bandages or the exhaustion in his father's proud posture.

"Out playing games, I see." The senior Winchester could make even the blandest statements into a judgment.

Dean didn't flinch or otherwise react to this potential slight on his chosen methods of instructing Sammy. He simply answered his father with a crisp "yes, sir" and waited for whatever other judgment his father might pass. Dean knew his father would expect a full report later and was fervently hoping it would meet with his father's approval although none of his hopes or needs showed on his young face.

Dean might have taken the implied criticism in stride, but both Sam and Sammy bristled on their brother's behalf. Young Sammy was not going to see his hero impugned. He stridently started to sing Dean's praises and was enumerating all the things Dean had taught him or done while their father was away. John didn't try to stop Sammy's enthusiastic defense of his brother, or try to get him to calm down: he knew only time would calm Sammy down and that nothing would sway the youngest Winchester from his impassioned defense of his hero.

The trio headed back to their apartment.

"See? Even then, after months of surviving on our own, all he can say is 'you're not doing enough!' How can you possibly think that there is anything to learn from this fuc…"

Sam was frozen again.

"That trick just never gets old."

Chris had transformed into a stereotypical university professor, complete with baggy corduroy pants, and a shapeless cardigan sweater. Chris' brief grin of ghostly superiority faded and he slipped into lecture node. There was still some serious educating to be done..

"Did it ever occur to you what your father didn't say? He didn't say: "you didn't do enough", he didn't say "I'm disappointed in you," and true, he didn't say he was proud of Dean. But by then he was incapable of saying anything that in his own eyes would make him appear weak in front of his boys. By then he was well into his mission to mold you into self-sufficient soldiers that could take care of anything that might try to attack you. Yes, he was obsessed with finding what killed your mother, but he was also obsessed with keeping you and your brother safe! And yes, he had a bloody strange way of showing he cared, but he truly believed that his way was the best way and that the best chance for you to survive was to be ready for anything. And since what he was trying to defend you against was things that he couldn't predict, things he couldn't control and things that he sometimes couldn't imagine, he had to control what he could as best he could. And that meant controlling you and Dean, the only way he knew how."

Chris paused briefly as if expecting a rebuttal, and then smirked at his silent captive audience.

God he hoped Sam was actually listening.

"Did it also never occur to you that Dean understands your father and understand what he can and can't say and what he does and doesn't need? Don't you think that Dean could already translate John-speak? That he could understand that John didn't criticize him, John didn't say he was doing a bad job, just that he should have been more strict with you? And you might want to consider that Dean, who knew your dad's criticisms but who had already decided that he would preserve as much of your childhood as he could, could process the slight and dismiss it as meaningless as he had no intention of ever changing his dealings with you? So that what you perceive as a deadly insult was something that might not even have registered with Dean?

"Believe me, there were enough times that your father held Dean up to an impossible standard and many times that Dean was made to feel guilty or inadequate about times and situations that were often beyond his control. Most people define themselves by their accomplishments; Dean's resumé glosses over his achievements and catalogues a perceived list of failures. There's a lot he feels guilty about or wishes he could have done differently, but I suspect that he regrets very few of the decisions he made to keep his family together, to keep his family safe.

"And while it is admirable that you consistently take your brother's side and are ready to defend him at a moment's notice, he needs you and your father as much as you need him. Maybe more as he needs to be needed and your father and you validate his role."

"Alright, enough philosophizing, but I honestly think you're selling your brother and father short."

Chris released Sammy as he finally paused for … well not breath, exactly… but he paused, ending his impromptu lecture and giving Sam a chance to absorb some of the thoughts Chris was trying to drive home.

Chris shook his head at how tenaciously Sam was clinging to his rather black and white view of his family and hoped that this next bit would have some impact. Like a sledge hammer… or a Mack truck…

"Let's skip ahead, shall we?"

And suddenly it was dark outside, and it was just John and Dean in the living room of their apartment. Dean was just finishing both his report on everything that had happened and his scarily expert medical stitching job. John was listening with a grim tight-lipped expression, whether from pain or anger, Sam couldn't tell.

"Did you put the Beretta back safely and take out the bullets?"

"Yes, sir."

"And what did you do with the camcorder tape and the VHS tape?"

Dean straightened where he stood and wouldn't look at his dad. "I still have the camcorder tape." He paused to gather his courage: this was the part of his plan that his father might not approve of. "I gave Spenser's tape to his dad. Anonymously."

John just regarded his older son thoughtfully. If he remembered correctly… "Spenser's dad is a construction worker." A burly six-foot-three small-town redneck construction worker. Which meant…

"Steel-toed boots."

Father and son said it together and shared both a grim laugh and a rare but perfect moment of equanimity. Nothing was said for a while as father and son basked briefly in the knowledge that a very fitting justice had likely been served. Morse had been conspicuously absent for the past week, likely it now seemed in a nearby hospital.

Finally John spoke again. "Remind me Champ, to get more lighter fluid."

And Dean, who knew perfectly well that they had a goodly supply, flashed a cocky grin at his father, knowing that Morse's perfect apartment was about to become barbeque fodder. Message understood: tactics and results: approved.

"Now get to bed, Ace, we've got to keep moving in the morning."

"Yes, sir!"

And as Sam and Chris watched a genuinely content Dean headed for their bedroom, their father started to rifle through their supply bag.

The memory gently faded away.

**o0o**

**TBC**

Next update likely on Monday.


	9. Chapter 9

A/N: this one mentions sex again, but not graphically.

I own a lot of super things and many natural things, but nothing Supernatural…

**o0o**

Sam was quietly reflecting on all that Chris had shown him as his motel room took shape around him. He shuddered remembering the slick certainty of Morse and how he'd been afraid that Dean would follow through if it meant keeping his brother safe. He remembered Dean's promise to keep him safe that his younger self had slept through and he remembered the shared moment of victory between father and son, that while not much was said, the two pride and love was apparent to both past and present participants. Sam had known that John loved his sons and would do everything he could to keep them safe. And he'd known that Dean felt the same way about his family and that he'd accepted role and seemed to become the perfect hunter. What he hadn't ever understood was how Dean could be happy with such a limited lot. How he could thrive under the rigors and restrictions that their upbringing had put on them. How he could be happy in the lonely, twisted role that John had forced him into, that John had never given him any other choice about.

And he'd never really appreciated that their family actually worked. Sure it worked in a way that would have any other family in therapy or a straightjacket – or jail for that matter – but both he and Dean _could_ take care of themselves, _could_ deal with whatever life threw at them – either supernatural or otherwise – and each member of the family _knew _that the other two had his back. Admittedly Sammy never wanted to have to face the decisions that Dean had had to, but Dean's recent electrocution and subsequent heart attack had shown Sammy that there was very little he wouldn't do for his brother. He'd had time to reflect as he'd waited for Layla to finish saying goodbye to Dean and as he'd watched the dieing woman leave, from his vantage point of the passenger seat of the Impala where he'd taken refuge, he'd known that even if he'd known that saving Dean would mean Marshal Hall had to die, he'd have done it anyway. It was a dark sentiment, and it was amoral and unethical and above all, selfish. But he'd reconciled himself to his own dark side, and knew that the ends would have justified the means if it meant that Dean lived. Dean was right, when he'd said that there were some things more important than killing the demon, that killing the demon wasn't worth it if it meant that they had to kill one of them to do it. His family, as warped and twisted as it was, did come first. And always had.

And that was what Chris was trying to tell him.

At least he thought it was. Man he hoped there weren't more memories like that one to go through…

Oh no. That had to be it, right, there couldn't be anything else… Dean hadn't ever…

He didn't want to ask, but wasn't sure he could live with not knowing.

"Chris… Dean didn't ever… he never… this was as close as he came right? He didn't ever sell himself to protect me? Or my Dad? He didn't, did he?

"No, Sam, he didn't. " Chris' voice was gentle and calming. Sam relaxed with a sigh of relief and closed his eyes to briefly give thanks to whatever deity might be listening.

Chris was feeling a touch of pride, tinged with regret: Dean would be so proud of his student. Chris hadn't technically lied: Dean hadn't compromised himself for Sam or John – he'd done it because he'd briefly wanted something for himself.

Dean had made that choice, he had given in – once – but it was in totally different circumstances and at fourteen, Mrs. Burkowski's offer to baby-sit Sammy every other day after school, for a price, so that Dean could play on the school baseball team, had really not seemed like a hardship to a hormonal teen. Dean had reveled in being a star shortstop, his hunter's reflexes making him a natural for lightning fast recoveries and he'd had a wicked snap to first. It had all been incredibly exciting and delicious and coupled with the lure of doing something wonderfully sexy and utterly non-hunting related, for only his own personal needs, it was as close to rebelling against their father's edicts as Dean could allow himself.

In fact initially it had been wonderful: fourteen-year old Dean had been ecstatic and had exulted in his new non-virginal status and in all the wonderful things he was learning. In fact, Chris privately suspected that all the women Dean had slept with since should be very grateful to Mrs. B. But what Dean had originally thought of as a win-win situation, was eventually tarnished as the newness finally wore off and as the treasured reward became an inconvenient chore. It became less of a fantastic sexual secret and much more of a shameful sexual service. Dean knew that his after school freedom had been bought at an awful price.

The experience had taught Dean the value of sex as a weapon; had taught Dean how to use his own sexiness to manipulate and get what he wanted; had taught Dean how to be charming. It was really just another lesson on being what people wanted you to be, just on a different level: more camouflage. And while the lessons had been valuable over the years, Dean sometimes wished he'd never learned them. Dean didn't want to be good at manipulating people, didn't want to use people in the same way to get what he needed, whether in a relationship or on a hunt. But he was, he was charming, he had always been able to be what others expected; he'd done it instinctively with both John and Sam for years. He was used to defining himself based on the needs of others, so he'd absorbed the newest lesson with less anguish than might be anticipated and had integrated his new abilities into his cocky, swaggering persona, and had adjusted in a way only someone who had been conditioned to keep their emotions in the background so they could assess a situation and act could. In his family rapid adaptation was a necessary survival skill.

But although the sexual barter system had certainly not been all bad – some of it had been _very_ good – Dean had never made that choice again, no matter how badly he'd wanted something. Middle school and high school sports were just another thing Dean had to learn to let go of – they were rarely at one school for an entire year, so inevitably they'd had to leave before finishing a season. While he remembered Mrs. Burkowski fondly for the most part, he also remembered the taint of basically selling himself and the eventual disgust of knowing that he had let himself be used, had compromised his own beliefs just to meet his own selfish needs.

Chris knew that nothing would be gained by telling Sam of Dean's choice: it would only taint Dean in Sam's eyes because Dean was still Sam's hero, no matter if neither brother would ever acknowledge it. In fact, it worked both ways: Dean thought that Sammy, in standing up to their father and in pursuing his own dreams, was both better and smarter and had more to offer. Dean when he'd learned that he was dying had been accepting, as dying on a hunt was the only inevitable conclusion he could see his life taking. But he knew – how could he not – Sam kept reminding him – that Sammy had a future that didn't include him, didn't include hunting or anything supernatural at all.

Sam wanted a 'normal' future, and if Dean had anything to say about it he'd get it.

Dean had spent many years trying to make sure that Sam's life had ordinary things in it. There was much he couldn't control: Sammy also only rarely got to partake in school activities. But Dean had taken Sammy to the zoo, to the movies, to an occasional baseball game, once to an amusement park, in an attempt to make sure that hunting wasn't all there was in his life. If Sam was fixated on being 'normal' it was because Dean had constantly given him doses of it. And to Sam it had been addicting.

And Chris knew that as Sam finally opened his eyes and wearily reaffirmed that they were back in the motel room, he would shortly discover another addicting dose.

Because there was a set of Mickey Mouse ears on Sam's bed. An incongruity which Sam hadn't taken in yet as he wasn't really seeing the room, he was still lost in his own thoughts, trying to match what he had known with what he had just learned.

Dean, who liked amusement park rides but abhorred the crowds, who liked the food and candy but hated the lineups and who Chris recalled was seriously wigged out by the people who dressed as cartoon characters, was going to put all that aside to take Sam to Disney World. For five fun-filled days of rides and cotton candy and where there would be nothing scarier than a huge Dora the Explora cartoon character.

Because Dean, who couldn't always communicate, who wasn't able to easily make lasting connections, _could_ read people and could usually understand what drove them, what they needed. He wasn't clairvoyant, he could be and had been fooled, and their life had left him with a pretty cynical worldview; he didn't expect much from anyone, even from his family. But he trusted his own judgment and his instincts. And he certainly knew what drove his brother and father, what they needed, and what would thrill Sammy to no end on his birthday.

Sam wanted normal. Well, it didn't get more normal than roller coasters, cotton candy and Mickey Mouse.

But Mickey would have to wait. Chris didn't want Sam to start thinking in the present yet, he had one more lesson he wanted Sam to see, because Sammy still didn't get that Dean was content in his own way, didn't believe that it was even possible that Dean could be satisfied with what Sam perceived to be an emotionally stunted and personally limiting career choice.

Sam still didn't totally get it. And Chris had just the memory to fix that.

Sammy's groan of denial was all that could be heard as Chris pulled Sam through the motel room door yet again.

Sometimes Chris loved his 'job'.

**o0o**

**TBC**


	10. Chapter 10

A/N: I changed the ending of this chapter, to finish this memory in one go. It makes more sense.

Don't own them. Tragic, but true.

**o0o**

Sam didn't know for sure where they were as they'd done a lot of driving that summer such that he didn't remember all the town names anymore, but he knew _when_ they were, because Dean was standing outside a low slung faded bungalow – likely their most recent temporary abode – and was standing in the warm summer sun lovingly washing and polishing his just that morning, brand new baby: his already beloved 67 Chevy Impala. Dean has seen an ad for the used car in a car magazine months ago and had made an offer. As soon as he'd confirmed that the car could be his, he'd started researching ghosts in Arizona so they could have a reason to go get it sooner rather than later. He'd been talking about this car for two months and they'd finally had a reason to drive to Winslow, maybe, or Flagstaff to pick it up.

Seventeen-year old Dean was wearing a pair of faded and ripped denims and a grey wife-beater that was soaked through with both water and sweat. A plastic bucket and garden hose lay at his feet, discarded in favour of a soft polishing rag. He was grinning broadly and humming – Metallica, what else? – as he worked on his hard-earned treasure.

Neither thirteen-year old Sam, who no longer wanted to be called Sammy, thank you very much, nor John were present at the time. The arid mid-afternoon sun was too hot for any of their neighbours as Dean was the only person braving the heat.

But there were three figures approaching Dean who were apparently unbothered by the heat or by any fear of discovery. They were ghosts: three of them, in broad daylight. It could only be Chris and his siblings.

'Chris' looked remarkably like James Dean in his "Rebel Without A Cause" role. The second ghost, whom Sam assumed was Christmas Present, looked like a female U.S. army soldier, with close-cropped blond hair, an attractive face with high cheek bones and deep-set eyes, and a no-nonsense attitude; she was dressed in desert camouflage gear. But the ghost of what could only be the Christmas Future looked like the stereotypical Grim Reaper-esq ghost clad in a heavy floor length robe complete with a concealing cowl. Whereas Chris looked cool and Christmas Present looked calm and confident, the future ghost just looked creepy.

"This was our first meeting after Dean saved our existences the day before." Chris was as subdued as Sam had seen him as he got ready to watch the memory take shape. Sam tried not to think about the bizarreness of watching a memory of the Ghost of Christmas Past, while standing beside the present-day Ghost of Christmas Past. It was making his head hurt.

He focused on Dean.

Dean had seen the three approaching and stopped what he was doing to straighten up, stretch out muscles cramped from being bent over his precious car, and warily greet the three spirits. Sam was surprised to note that while Dean didn't relax his guard, as the ghosts froze time around them, he didn't try to grab any one of the weapons newly stashed in the spotless 67 Chevy.

"Let me guess which is which: You're Past," pointing to Chris, "you're Present," pointing to the female lieutenant, "and you must be Christmas Future."

"Actually his name is technically 'The Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come' but most people have forgotten that, so Christmas Future will suffice." Even ten years ago Chris was more than a little sanctimonious.

"Whatever. Hey! Future-dude – step away from the car! I don't have it fully warded yet and I don't want you glitching my engine."

"He wasn't going to touch your car, he just wanted a closer look, he's a classic car buff, although why he is, as it takes so much concentration to actually ride in one, I'll never know." The Ghost of Christmas Present rolled her translucent eyes and shook her head in fond exasperation at her younger brother.

"A Ghost with good taste. Finally. Most of your kin are angry assholes who don't have the sense to stay dead. You can take a closer look as long as you keep your ghostly mitts off my baby."

"No, we're here on a brief mission to hopefully repay the favour and then we're off. The Ghost of Christmas Present saw what you did this morning, and The Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come doesn't want you to endanger your future."

"Oh he doesn't does he? And does the Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come have anything to say for himself?"

"Obviously you're not up on your Dickens, are you?" Chris sniped at Dean who was rapidly losing his cool with the three mega-moniker-ed manifestations. Before Dean could reply to Chris' rhetorical question, the smug spirit continued. "The Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come can't speak. It's in all the adaptations and plays and TV Christmas episodes. He knows the future but can't speak it, can only point to the images and inspire enough fear of those images to motivate the previously unrepentant to mend their ways.

"Are you sure you scored 1540 on your SATs?"

"Dean scored _1540_ on his SATS? I didn't even know he'd ever even taken his SATs! I don't recall him studying for them, and I'm sure his marks were never that high!"

Current Chris looked at Sam and wondered if Sam was threatened by the confirmed knowledge that he wasn't the only smart one in the family. Part of Dean's adopted persona, part of his way of charming and manipulating those he needed information from was to camouflage his intelligence: you could learn a lot while pretending to be dumb. And scholastically, there were many memories that Chris could show Sam of Dean taking care of Sammy after school until their father came home and then trying to get his homework done before John and Dean went out on a hunt (often leaving Sammy locked in their motel room or in the car); memories of Dean being too tired to finish assignments or injured and missing tests, or just unable to concentrate in school because of all the things a normal unburdened kid never had to worry about, often including where their father was, how to make their money last, trying to learn enough and practice enough and be tough enough to keep himself and his brother and father safe from the things that go bump in the night..

But Chris knew that Dean wouldn't want him to show Sam anything that would just pile needless guilt on Sam for being a burden. Because what Chris was trying to show Sam was that Dean didn't see it as a burden. Ok, sometimes when he was a teenager and he wanted to go out rather than be stuck with a whining eleven-year old, but for the most part Dean felt blessed, not burdened, by Sammy.

Now if he could just get Sammy to believe…

Of course, Dean, having learned to be strong enough and tough enough, also learned to lock his emotions away, and could never say that, could never just come out and explain himself to Sam. There were still things about each other that for all their incredible closeness, neither brother really understood. Chris was hoping to rectify that. Because Dean was now primarily a hunter, and in order to hunt you had to think first, act fast and get the job done. And emote never. Or at least save the processing of the fear and terror for such a time as no one could see you lose it. Especially not your younger brother who still looked up to you – not as blindly as he'd done when he was younger – and your father who expected you to be strong and unbending.

Sam was still sputtering beside him. "He could have gotten into any number of universities with that score, he could have gotten a scholarship somewhere. If he hadn't used his money to buy the Impala…"

Chris loved watching the lightbulb moments, the dropping of the penny, the slow dawning of knowledge into an unwilling subconscious.

"He checked his scores first, and then went to finally pay for and take possession of the car. He knew he could use the money to get out, to go to school and he didn't. He bought that damn car. He could have…"

"Sam! Getting out, going to school was _your_ dream. It was never Dean's. I suspect that he only took his SATs out of curiosity to see how he'd do. I believe that he was figuring he wouldn't do very well and he'd use that as an excuse to not go. He'd made his decision long before he'd got his results back."

"He decided not to go because of me. Because of me and Dad and how we couldn't get along without him." Sam was angry again, and not listening.

"Yes, you and your father certainly factored into his decision, but you weren't the only reason."

Sam glowered at Chris, and crossed his arms, unable to see this as anything other than a dream-crushing blow.

"Oh just shut up and watch would, you? Everything is not about you!"

Around them the memory continued.

Dean just looked that the presumptuous spirits for a brief moment, nonplussed that they knew both his score and his decision.

Then he exploded: "Listen 'Chris'! You may think you're so smart, and you may think you know everything there is to know about being a ghost – sorry, metaphysical manifestation of a literary creation, brought to life by the public's overwhelming belief in your existence – but if you knew anything at all, asshole, you'd know that as a being based on belief, the only thing keeping Silent Bob here silent is the fact that no one believes he can talk. Well I believe he can talk, I believe he was just waiting for the right person to talk to, and I believe that if his supposedly know-it-all brother would just shut up and listen for once, you'd find out that Bobby has a lot to say!"

The three spirits looked at each other in stunned silence. Was it really that simple? And could the utter belief and conviction of one bull-headed young man really be enough to make a difference? The newly-christened 'Bob' slowly took off the cowl to reveal a thin, intelligent face with thick black hair and a stern, noble bearing. He dramatically took a deep breath in…

"You rock, dude! I can talk! Bloody marvelous! Gods having to be quite for the last hundred and fifty years while these two constantly misinterpret what I'm trying to say. This is fabulous!" The stern visage had melted away to be replaced by a much younger looking, infinitely more mischievous face of young rap star. Bob now looked like a young Will Smith in his early rap days, now dressed in colorful overly large clothes.

"Dean's right, bro, you really need to learn how to lighten up. Relax, take a load off." 'Bob' made some classic rap dance moves, and looked like he was about to start rhyming. Fortunately, for all concerned, he relented. "Seriously, Chris, you keep making all the decisions and then overriding 'Missy' and me when we try to object. And poor 'Missy' often gets caught in the middle between what both of us want."

"Missy?" the ghost formerly known as Christmas Present, raised an elegantly arched eyebrow at her brother.

"Hey if it works. I mean you seem to prefer manifesting as female, and most people pronounce it kriss-MISS anyway…"

'Missy' smiled at 'Bob'. "Ok, 'Bob', you win."

As one both siblings turned on 'Chris'.

Before they could pounce Dean took pity on them. "Hey, don't take it out on Chris. Ok, so I don't know dick about Dickens, but I don't remember ol' Charlie saying anything about your relationships to each other. Chris, here is just doing his best to take on the big brother role. And he's finding out that it's not as easy as I make it look." Dean gave his audience one of his trademark cocky grins. "And Bobby, while you likely feel undervalued and over-protected as the baby, and whatever other gripes the baby of the family might have, it means you've got two peo… er, beings looking out for you. And you guys both need to take care of Missy. I'm betting the reason she prefers to be a woman is because she wants to stand out from you two.

"And because she's totally hot as a woman!"

Here Dean flashed his 'women want me and I know it' grin at Missy and she proved that it wasn't only living breathing women who weren't immune to this particular Winchester's charm.

Actually Bob swooned a bit too.

Dean hastily continued on with his impromptu lesson.

"The three of you need to learn to hear each other. In my family both my brother and father are above average at talking, but below average at listening. Me I'm below average on talking, slightly better than average at listening. There are times I swear they both have selective hearing. Trust me it works way better when you can do both."

And Dean, belatedly realizing that he had ventured perilously close to a chick flick moment and with a trio of virtual strangers no less, suddenly shut up and became interested in polishing his car top. His brand new car top, his baby. His broad gin of unfiltered joy and pride threatened to re-appear. He was trying to remain smooth and cool in front of his new… friends… but it wasn't working.

It was funny but he instinctively trusted these three and had from the first moment he met them yesterday when they were trapped in an amateur but effective poltergeist trap. He'd freed them after studying them each briefly. He'd trusted them. It was that simple.

Chris, Missy and Bob watched Dean polish needlessly for a moment or two, collectively stunned at the simple wisdom this tenacious teenager had imparted. It was easy to forget he was only seventeen: Dean seemed much older. Bob suspected that Dean never got carded in bars or when buying liquor or beer.

Sam glanced over at Chris who was now smiling fondly at his earlier self and siblings. He got that Chris was trying to show him that Dean was smarter than he usually gave him credit for, and it was nice that Dean's unstinting belief gave Bob a voice, although how one person's belief thwarted a century and a half of disbelief Sam didn't know. Ok, granted it was _Dean's_ belief, and when Dean believed in something or someone, like their father, for instance, his beliefs were pretty absolute, so maybe, but none of this told him why Dean had never gone to college and why he had wasted an opportunity to get out. How could he not want more than this fucked up life, how could he not want to get away and do something for himself for once.

He sighed impatiently and asked: "Does any of this have a point?"

"Yes there's a point. The reason we approached your brother in the first place was because 'Bob' was worried about Dean's future. The point of our ghostly existence is to offer people a chance to change their future, and while usually we each work as a solo act, this wasn't strictly speaking a full 'True Meaning of Christmas' deal, it was more of a we can let you go back and change one decision kind of deal. Dean's decision to definitely buy the car and not go to college meant that he'd shorten his lifespan significantly: he wasn't going to die in the next year or so, but by the same token he wouldn't live to see thirty.

"And we told him that. After a discussion between Bob and Dean about cars – and no, Bob couldn't talk to anyone else other than us and Dean – no one else has Dean's unwavering faith –Bob showed Dean his own grave marker, complete with the exact date of his death. It's not my place to show you Dean's future, but I can show you the rest of the conversation. Here."

And the memory they were watching faded out momentarily and faded in again. Bob now looked likea blonde Californian surfer, but was wearing his long robe over top of his vibrant Hawaiian shirt and baggy swim trunks. But in spite of his flamboyant clothes he was silently somber as he watched Dean contemplate his own certain death.

"So that's the day I die, hun?" Dean was trying to play it cool, but Sammy knew his brother too well and could see that Dean was severely rattled by the unwanted knowledge. "And what does this have to do with me buying my car? I'm not taking it back. And I'm not giving up hunting. I'm not leaving my father and brother out there to fend for themselves – if something happened to Sammy or Dad cause I wasn't there…" Dean didn't finish the sentence, but the "I'd hate myself for the rest of my life" was understood by all watchers. The look in Dean's previously unreservedly happy countenance was now overshadowed by a worried and guilt laden look that Sam only saw when Dean's guard was down.

"We can offer you the chance to reset time and to go back to before you handed over the money for the car and give yourself a different future, a longer future. Your future won't necessarily be miserable if you don't go to college, but you're limiting yourself. Don't you want more?"

Sam leaned forward eagerly. He couldn't wait to hear the answer to Chris' questions. Here was the information he wanted to know. Cause honestly? He'd never got it. Never understood how Dean could have passed up this chance.

"You just don't get it. None of you do. Maybe I didn't have a choice about hunting; maybe I would have liked to have had a life where we didn't move schools every two months; maybe I 'd like to not have had to take care of my brother every day of my life. But you know what? I didn't have a choice and sure a lot of it sucked, but the way we live means we're closer than most families I know. Being so focused on one goal may seem limiting, but me and Sammy have learned how to take care of ourselves in almost any situation. And while most people couldn't do what we do, many people in this world never find something to do that they're good at, that they know is worthwhile and that they enjoy doing. Don't you get it? I like hunting. I like being good at it, I like figuring it out, I like being able to kill the monsters that other people don't even know exist. I can kill the sons-of-bitches, I can keep my family safe, and no one else can do what we do.

"And I like that this means I get to stay with my family longer. I have no desire to go to college at all. Hunting means that you never know when one of the monsters might get lucky and take one of out, so I'm going to take every minute I can with my brother and father, and work as hard as I can to make sure it doesn't happen. I never regretted taking care of Sammy. Yes, he can be a pain in the ass, and yes, I could have used some more free time, but Sammy is my brother. I lo… I… He's the most important person in my world and I like being his big brother. I like having someone to look out for, and if I can keep him and my dad safe, then that's good enough for me.

"I'm not not going to college because I can't, or even because my family needs me – which they still do – but because there's nothing that college is going to teach me about ridding the world of pain-in-the-ass poltergeists or getting rid of vampires or werewolves. I've found what I want to do, and nothing in any fancy university is going to make me any better at it."

Dean paused to regard his well-meaning but misguided ghosts and looked squarely at Bobby as he continued.

"And trying to scare me into giving it up, won't work. It'll happen when it happens and if that means that I only have twelve more years left, then I'll cram as much time with my family and as many dead demons in as I can. And I'll do it in a kick ass car!

"So, thanks but no thanks."

And Dean, who rarely felt compelled to justify himself to anyone, living or otherwise, calmly went back to buffing his baby.

Both the three ghosts in the memory and the two current-day watchers were stunned silent. It was a lot to take in.

**o0o**

**TBC**


	11. Chapter 11

A/N: This follows from the revised chapter ten. Next chapter will be longer, I promise.

If I owned Supernatural, I'd have more than $2.87 in the bank.

**o0o**

It _was_ a lot to take in. Chris let the memory of his siblings fade, and he and Sam were once again standing on the outside of the motel room door looking out at the parking lot where the afternoon sun had not changed position in the sky even though it felt like an eternity had passed for Sam.

Sam was still trying to process. He'd known that his brother wasn't stupid, but having it confirmed for him in empirical terms that he intrinsically understood had surprised him. And he knew better than anyone that the person Dean showed the rest of the world, was not the person he really was. But Sam saw the annoying, cocky, dumb jerk so often, that it was easy to forget that it was an act, that the person underneath that _was_ smart, a whiz at many things mechanical and could put seemingly random pieces of a puzzle together – pieces that most people wouldn't even realize were meaningful or connected in any way – and name and identify what they were up against. Or name and identify what was up with either Sam or their dad, which was sometimes trickier.

And Sam knew that Dean needed them: he'd said so. Dean, who loathed all things touchy-feely, had actually said that he didn't want Sam to leave, said that he'd gone to get Sam because while he could hunt alone, he didn't want to. Dean didn't see hunting as a means to an end; whereas Sam would be happy to hang up his rock-salt gun when they'd sent the demon that killed their mom and Jess back to Hell, Dean would keep going, alone, because it needed to be done, and he was good at it. But he'd never really seen Dean's need to keep hunting as anything other than Dean selling himself short; he'd always been so sure that no one could look at their upbringing and be thankful for it.

He shook his head – it still didn't compute.

Chris sighed beside him. Maybe it was the century and a half of watching people's remembered histories and being forced to observe so many pivotal moments in people's convoluted lives; maybe he was just good at reading people from wading through all the denial and illusions people clung to as security blankets over the years; maybe because he did know Dean, so maybe Sammy was easier to read. But for whatever reason Chris could tell that Sam wasn't yet adding two and two to get four.

Sheesh – and he was supposed to be the smart one in the family.

Part of the problem was that none of the Winchesters liked to examine how their family functioned too closely. Sure, Dean was the one with the well-publicized aversion to 'chick flick' moments, and Sam did like talking their arguments and issues out, but there were a lot of things that the Winchesters didn't discuss or share or acknowledge. Case in point, while Sam badgered Dean to not shut him out, he hadn't been very forthcoming about his visions and dreams, not until he'd had to, to convince Dean to go back to Lawrence. And neither Sam nor John ever thanked Dean for all the things he did to keep them together and stable; and it wasn't ingratitude on their part as much as it was just how it was: they sky is blue, ghosts get salted and burned, and Dean was just there. And you didn't say please and thank you when issuing orders or fighting off pissed off witches or angry trolls. So while the whole family could rapidly process, identify and nullify any possible threat, very little of that focused concentration was ever aimed at their family dynamic.

And it wasn't just Dean that wasn't appreciated: John was too often painted with a negative brush; both his sons, in watching their father interact with their brother, tended to only see the lapses, the errors, the enforced training. But there were moments when John had taken time out to just be with his boys; and most of the absences were times that John was working late to support them, or hunting alone to protect them; and the all the training was so they could take care of themselves. John would never win father of the year, and in their single-parent, mission-focused childhoods he _had_ relied on his steady older son because he could, but John, in his own way had done his best by them. And had turned out two capable, adaptable hunters even if only one of them truly fit the mold.

And yes it was likely that Sam too was overlooked for being the less naturally gifted hunter, was taken for granted in his incredibly thorough researching abilities and was dismissed for being too young even though he wasn't a kid any more and would likely always despair of being Sammy to his family. None of the three was perfect, but today's lesson was Dean 101, and Chris' student was in danger of a failing grade.

Chris looked at Sam, assessing his receptivity to one last memory. There were so many moments he could choose from: he could show Sam any one of the ordinary everyday sacrifices that Dean had made on his behalf, all the times Dean tried to downplay or gloss over all the things they couldn't have or do. He could show Sammy the hours of sleep Dean had lost, the opportunities he never got to pursue or the skills he never got to develop as they didn't pertain to hunting or tracking down paranormal pests. And in his quest to show Sam how normal a family they were in spite of their relentless pursuit of Mary's killer Chris had avoided any memories of fighting or killing monsters, but there were an endless supply of 'do whatever it takes to keep my family safe' moments from both Dean and John, and eventually from Sam too.

But Sammy was starting to get that his family worked, and that they looked out for each other. What he didn't get was why it didn't bother Dean more. Why Dean was content in his role and how come he didn't feel intrinsically gypped by life in general and their father in particular.

Well, there was one memory that might just be the catalyst Chris needed. It had been the catalyst for everything in their lives that followed. Maybe it was time for Sammy, who less than four months ago had yelled at Dean for not understanding what it was that he was going through with the death of Jess, maybe it was time for Sammy to see what Dean had lost.

Yes, it was time.

It was time to take Sammy home to mama.

**o0o**

**TBC**


	12. Chapter 12

I own Chris, but that doesn't really make up for not owning Dean or Sam.

**o0o**

Sam tried to jerk out of Chris' grasp as Chris pushed him through the motel room door yet again. His indignant curses were a fine tribute to his brother's teaching skills, but were mostly lost as yet another living room took shape around them. This one looked vaguely familiar but Sam couldn't quite place it. It was small and sparsely furnished. It was tidy except for the Fisher-Price multi-level play parking garage with six or seven different cars on and around it, and a large yellow Tonka dump truck filled with brightly coloured Duplo pieces and some Hot-Wheels cars. It was not very luxurious, but it was cheerful and homey and thoroughly lived in. Sam didn't recall it as one of their many temporary homes.

Sam could hear a woman's voice singing "You Are My Sunshine" and a young boy's voice chiming in on when prompted with the word "sunshine" and the correct end word of each of the lines of the song. It sounded like a much-practiced routine between mother and son. Unless Dean had a kid and never told Sam – and after learning about Cassie, not many things would surprise Sam any more – then this had to be…

"No! I don't want to see it!"

Chris froze the memory around them, as Sam rounded on him angrily.

"Isn't it bad enough I had to watch Jessica die – watch Jess die before it happened, as it happened and every night after it happened? Isn't it enough that I saw the woman I loved and wanted to marry die above me, writhing in agony on the ceiling? Isn't it enough that I've had to deal with this moment every day of my life? Do I have to see it too? Damnit Chris, I…"

"SHUT UP!" Chris uncharacteristically roared at Sam. "And get over yourself! Not everything is about you." Chris paused to collect himself. "And give me some bloody credit would you? No, I am not going to make you see _that_ moment! I am not a monster. I _know_ you don't need to see it. And I know what you've gone through with Jessica and I would never subject you to needless, gratuitous pain just to prove a point."

Chris glared at Sammy whose body was literally shaking with anger. Sam had had it with the know-it-all interfering spirit and just wanted this over with. He started to speak again, but Chris cut him off.

"Listen! For once in your life, shut up and listen! I realize that your life went to Hell that day. I know that that one day in November 1983 has tainted everything in your life that followed. But you know what? Both yours and Dean's life started before that moment in November. You don't remember any of it, but that doesn't negate the short time that you did have a happy family! And I should think that you would welcome to opportunity to see your mother, and to see your father and brother when your mother was alive."

Chris watched as Sam's stance relaxed as he tried to absorb Chris' words.

"Sam, yes, I've shown you that it hasn't been easy for anyone in your family, and I've tried to show you that your father and brother would do anything for you. What I want you to see is that being 'normal' doesn't guarantee happiness, and that what's the most important thing to Dean, before hunting, before finding your mom's demon – and before his precious car – is his family. And not just protecting his family and keeping them safe, but _having_ a family and being able to _be_ _with_ his family and enjoying the moments you have together, because the very first major life lesson your brother learned is that life is short and that fair has nothing to do with it.

"What I wanted to show you was not your mother's death, but the moments she was alive."

Sam looked stunned. He hadn't really thought about it. His mother wasn't a real person to him, sadly, because all he knew of her was her death. He had asked Dean about her, and Dean had tried to give Sammy a sense of a woman he himself had barely known, but Sam only had a few pictures and one all-too-brief encounter with his mother in this self-same house from less than a year ago to build an image of who his mother had been.

He wasn't sure he was ready to see this, but Chris was right, this was a rare opportunity. He could finally meet his mother as a person, and maybe see more of where he and Dean came from, not just genetically but personality-wise.

Plus it would likely give him more ammunition to tease Dean with when this was over.

He knew that seeing his mother could only be bittersweet, but he'd never have a chance like this again.

He took a deep breath in and exhaled much of his anger and tension and nodded to Chris to continue.

Two jubilant voices were holding the last note of the song as the memory resumed. Two figures emerged from the stairs from the basement. Mary was looking tired but content, with her shoulder-length blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail; she was wearing jeans and a Black Sabbath tour t-shirt. She looked startlingly ordinary, and much less of a tragic icon and way more of a real person. She was bracing a full load of clean laundry against one hip. And was holding a lit cigarette in her other hand. His mother smoked? It was so far removed from his picture of his mother that it jarred Sam. He had expected a gentle, loving woman in a flowing dress, perhaps, not a tired, un-made up woman in grubby jeans and a t-shirt, smoking cigarettes. It was very disconcerting

Following his mother, pretending to be a racing car, was three-and-a-half-year old Dean, looking very adorable with his startlingly blond hair and delighted, unguarded smile.

"Mama is the baby gonna be yur 'Sunsine' too, cause I don' wan' him ta be." Young Dean had parked himself under the coffee table and was looking over at his mother expectantly. Mary was smiling fondly at her only child as she began to fold the laundry at the dining room table.

"No, Sunny-Bear, the baby will be my Twinkle Winkle Little Star instead, how about that?" Mary offered instead the name of another song whose title Dean hadn't quite mastered and which while it was in his small lexicon of music, wasn't his current favourite.

Almost four-year old Dean gave that some serious contemplation – all of two seconds – and decided that was okay. "Okay, mama." And he went back to zooming the truck he'd found under the table around its legs.

"But sweetie, we don't know if it's going to be a little brother or a little sister yet. It could be a little girl."

Dean scrunched up his little button nose and pronounced: "But I wan' a boy. Girls are yucky."

Mary just smiled at her son and saved the debate about Dean's soon to be sibling for another day. Dean was adamant that he was getting a brother. Her son was already showing signs of the Winchester stubbornness: in fact if Mary was being honest that bull-headedness ran on both sides of the family. Mary resumed folding the laundry and began humming under her breath.

"She's humming Judas Priest! My mother is humming heavy metal songs. And smoking a cigarette." It hit Sam then that he didn't really know the woman he was watching, he didn't know what her favourite song was, what she liked to do for fun, or really anything much about what made her tick. The information he had was all second hand and all mostly from Dean, who had been too young himself to be able to answer any of Sam's questions for him.

Mary swore out loud as she knocked cigarette ashes on a clean white t-shirt. Both the past and current sons focused on their mother.

"Yur not s'possed ta say that Mama. That's a bad word. Like 'fuck'." Dean had come into the dining room to admonish his mother. He was looking up at her earnestly.

Mary looked at Dean regretfully. "You're right, sunshine. Mama's not supposed to say those words and you shouldn't either, okay?

"Okay, Mama." And Dean resumed his cross-country road race under the dining room table, unperturbed.

"See? Your mother swore too. I can show you her drinking beer, her terrible driving skills and her quick temper. And Sammy you definitely got your ability to brood from her. And your love of reading. She was a keenly intelligent woman yet she could never remember the words to songs; she didn't let that stop her from singing though, she just made up words instead – it drove your father nuts – he was always a stickler for things being precise.

"I know you don't know this woman, I know she's never been a real person to you, but what I'm trying to show you is that she was a real person to Dean, a real person who was ripped away from him without warning."

Sam was silent for several moments, watching the easy, untarnished love between mother and son. It was touching, it was sweet, and he so didn't want to see it. Watching Dean interact with a woman he really didn't know meant very little to him, other than to make him jealous of the time he'd never had with his mom. He didn't want to see this. What he wanted to see…

He turned pleading eyes to Chris.

"Could you… can I see… could you show me _me_ and mom? Please?"

Chris looked at Sam in surprise. The brothers were certainly nothing alike. Life had taught Dean to rely on himself so he never seemed to expect much from people, such that he rarely asked for anything from people unless it pertained to a hunt or to his family. Dean had had his own experience with the ghostly trio's powers and had seen what they'd chosen to show him, but hadn't asked for more – it hadn't occurred to him. Sam had gown up trusting that there would always be someone there for him, knowing that John or Dean would take care of him, would protect him and would have the answers to his questions. Sam had been asking questions since he could talk, always wanting to know more and had always had someone to answer them, or someone to take him to the library so he could look it up. While college hadn't provided all of the answers, it had taught him that it was okay to ask for things, it wasn't a weakness to rely on others and that you could have expectations of and could trust in people other than yourself. Whereas Dean was almost utterly incapable of asking, Sam was virtually fearless.

And Chris thought that maybe he could accommodate Sammy, after one more moment that Sam would definitely not want to see. He was after all, trying to make a point.

"I have to show you one last memory of Dean, one last chapter of Dean 101, no matter how much you don't want to see it – and no it's not your mother's death. But it _is_ your mother's funeral."

Sammy started shaking his head in denial.

Chris persisted. "I think it's important that you see it, and see what it did to that bright young boy. I think it will be the final piece to the puzzle that is Dean William Winchester. And then, yes, I can show you your mother – your smoking, cussing and swearing mother who loved her sons."

Sam was still shaking his head and had his hands over his eyes in a vain attempt to try to block out what he knew was coming.

He didn't think he was ready for this. He didn't think he'd ever be ready for this.

**o0o**

**TBC**

The next chapter should finally see some resolution. Should be due out on Monday.


	13. Chapter 13

A/N: Here there be angst.

Still don't own them.

o0o

How is it even possible that funerals happen on sunny days? It was November for Christ's sake a month epitomized for its bleak gray days and yet it was a cool, crisp Kansas autumn day with no rain in sight and not a cloud in the sky. It just seemed wrong to be watching the thirty or so people who were standing unhappily together in somber clothes by his mother's casket which was about to be lowered into the ground as they offered quiet comfort to each other in the brilliant afternoon sunlight.

Sam didn't recognize most of the mourners. He knew his mother's parents but that was mostly from pictures and not from remembered visits. And they'd visited their Aunt Cathy once or twice over the years that he recognized his mother's sister in spite of being about fifty pounds lighter and twenty years younger. And he vaguely recognized some of his dad's army buddies that they'd eventually met. The rest were unknowns to him; he didn't know who his mother was to them or where they'd known her from. Yet more evidence that the woman who should have been the most important woman in his life was a complete stranger to him.

And yet she was the most important woman in his life and had been for twenty years, uncontested: her death had changed everything. Sam while never knowing what he had missed as he couldn't remember his mother, had never really known who he had missed either. All he had known was that unlike all the other kids, he didn't have a mother: there was a gap in his grade school stick figure drawings, there was no one to join the PTA, there was no one to make a mother's day card for. Sam had hating having to explain that, year after year, school after school, that his mother was dead, had died when he was a baby. He'd hated seeing the looks of pity on yet another gently embarrassed teacher's face as they found some other artwork project for Sammy to do, or suggested that he make the vase or picture frame for John instead. He'd never known his mother but he'd known his lack of her his whole life.

Not that he hadn't been cared for. His father and brother had done the best they could: Dean had done way more than any merely four years older brother ever should have: he'd given Sammy a strategy for dealing with awkward pauses when the adults stuttered to a stop when they learned Sam's mother was dead; he exclaimed and examined all of Sammy's artwork and stories; and one memorable occasion he'd even tried to bake something when all the mothers had been asked to bake something for a bake sale their newest school was having. Sammy smiled briefly at the recollection: the cake had never made it to school, in fact most of the cake never made it into the oven – most of it had ended up on the floor, on each other and each boy had consumed a large quantity of uncooked cake mix. Their father had been stonily silent when he'd come home from whatever job he'd had and had found his boys covered in flour and water and chocolate cake mix. But his "well, did you save any for me" line was the start of one of Sam's fondest memories of his dad as he had gotten into the food fight with them.

None of that lighthearted father was anywhere in evidence right now. Sam had avoided looking, had deliberately kept his eyes away from the figures closest to the grave, but he could feel the weight of Chris' expectation beside him and he finally allowed himself to see.

Oh god. It was as bad as he'd thought. Worse. Four-and-a-half-years old Dean was silently sobbing in a little navy blue suit jacket and black pants, his breath was hitching as tears streamed from his eyes as he clutched John's pant leg as John stood stone-faced beside the grave, carefully holding his sleeping infant son in one strong arm. His father wasn't crying. His father wasn't reacting. His father was wearing that stoic mask that Sam had come to know and had learned to hate – that same closed off, locked in, eyes impassive look that Sam knew his brother had learned from their father. A look that said: "Back off and leave me alone" in no uncertain terms. A look that Dean gave him usually accompanied by a totally inadequate and utterly unbelievable "I'm fine." And Sam could already see the beginning of the determined, all-consuming obsession, because if he could read his father at all, he'd say he was still in denial, still not coping, not believing. And note ready to cope with anything, let alone ready to be solely responsible for two small boys.

Chris hadn't yet shown Sam who John was before Mary's death. Maybe Chris had been going to show Sam before Sam had interrupted his 'lesson' and had asked to see his mother. So Sam hadn't yet had a glimpse of his father unburdened, and he was regretting that as he witnessed the birth of the bitter haunted man his father would become.

As he witnessed the death of Dean's unfettered childhood.

For, in a move that Sam could only interpret as achingly symbolic of everything that was to come, John knelt down and handed the still sleeping baby into his big brother's care.

"Son, I need you to hold onto your brother for a minute, ok Champ? I've got to go talk to the minister."

But the minister would have to wait because Dean spared one hand as he clutched his sleeping baby brother to his chest to grasp his dad's jacket to stop him from getting up.

"Two hands on the baby, son." John's was gruff with suppressed emotion. He could hold it together as long as he didn't look at his sons. He could and would get through this interminably long, unimaginably painful day but he wasn't ready to share his grief with anyone, wasn't ready to be the strong one for his son; he knew he'd have to be, he just didn't know how he was going to be. Meeting Dean's tear-filled hazel eyes meant acknowledging that he wasn't the only one Mary had left, wasn't the only one devastated by this profoundly inexplicable loss. He heard rather than saw Dean's breath hitch as he tried to quiet enough to talk to his dad. He couldn't meet his son's eyes as his son gazed up at him in his still crouched position, both hands now cradling his brother.

"D-dad?" Tears were still rolling down Dean's face, unimpeded by the not yet acquired tough façade. "D-daddy? Is mommy coming back?"

John's gaze hardened as he reacted to this metaphorical jab to the solar plexus. He tried to soften it, for his son's sake, but the eyes that briefly met his son's before he was forced to look away by the weight of the grief in this nearly inconsolable child were shuttered and cool.

"Dean, Mommy's not coming back. She's in heaven now, with Grandpa Joe and Buster."

John didn't want to say the next part, didn't want to have to admit it out loud, but Dean needed to hear it, had to understand. No matter how hard it was to say. He steeled himself to meet his son's tear-soaked face.

"Mommy's dead, son. She's not ever coming back. It's just you me and Sammy now." And damnnit John was blinking back the tears, willing them not to fall. And failing. Silent tears were slipping down his face – he futilely tried to stop them. Dean needed his father. John wanted to be strong for him. John needed to be strong for him, for them both.

Oh god. He knelt on the grass, heedless of his dress pants, and gathered Dean and Sammy to him. He couldn't do this. But for his sons, he'd have to. Somehow.

He rocked his sons gently as he and Dean mourned while Sammy slept, cradled by his family.

"D-daddy? Are you going to die too? Is Sammy?"

John couldn't answer. Didn't want to answer. Because the answer was 'yes'. And that's not what Dean wanted to hear right now, not what Dean needed to hear right now. His grieving son just wanted reassurances. And John didn't have any to offer.

He pulled back from Dean a bit in order to answer the question. He wanted to, but he couldn't lie to his son, no matter how painful the truth might be; he couldn't afford to, not any more.

"Yes, Dean. Someday I'm going to die too."

Dean started sobbing anew into his father's jacket, young Sammy almost crushed between them.

"I don't want you to die, Daddy. I want you to stay with Sammy n' me."

"I want to stay with Sammy and you too, kiddo, but sometimes people die just like that."

Dean pushed away from John's chest just enough to be able to see his dad.

"Are… are you going to be d-dead too… when I go to sleep tonight?" His son's tear-filled hazel eyes held an anguish no four-year-old should ever have to experience.

To hell with the painful truth – Dean was _four_, goddamnnitall.

"No, Dean, I'm not going to die when you go to sleep. I'm going to be here for as long as I can, cause I love you boys, and I don't want to leave you."

"Mama loved us... and she's gone." Dean's soul-stricken, grief-filled eyes pleaded for understanding. It just didn't make any sense.

John couldn't argue with that inescapable truth.

"Yes, she'd gone, and something could happen to me too, but we're going to take good care of each other and we're going to protect each other and we're going to be a family together and if something does happen…"

Goddamnnit, but John couldn't think, couldn't find a way to make this alright. "If something does happen…" Fuck – what if something _did_ happen? John was all the boys had left at this moment – no way in hell were they every going to live with Mary's parents. Her sister Cathy… John couldn't think. Didn't have a plan. Didn't have an answer for his son.

Shit. He _did_ have a plan. It was so obvious. And it would work.

Dean, even at four, was already a natural follower. He wanted to do what was expected of him. He was happiest when he had earned one of Mary's smiles or one of his dad's "Good job, Champ!''s. Dean's developing personality was already settling into the role of a natural caregiver who wanted to make everyone happy: he was already trying to be the best big brother he could be to Sammy. He already took his perceived responsibilities seriously. And he was still young enough to be malleable. John could exploit that.

God help him. May Mary forgive him for what he was about to do.

"We'll have to be strong, be tough, ready for anything, so that if something does happen you and Sammy can take care of each other. We'll be a family for as long as we can, and we'll be strong and ready for anything."

God the thought of turning this earnest, loving boy into a tough battle-ready soldier sickened John, but Dean was right, something _could_ happen. And if what happened to Mary was any indication the threat could come from anywhere.

"We just gotta be strong, Champ, we just gotta be strong." And John clenched his own traitorous eyes shut and fought for control. He blinked back tears of his own, as he started Dean down the road to toughening him up, to becoming the pliable willing soldier and protector that he knew he could be.

"Don't cry, son. We have to be strong now. Don't cry, Dean."

And Dean, even grieving and hurt and not able to even begin to understand the new shape of his world, tried, as ever, to do what his father wanted. He gulped audibly and sniffed several times as he tried to be brave like his dad, be strong like his dad and tried to emulate his father's shuttered expression. He freed one hand from holding his brother to wipe away the tears. His bottom lip was trembling, his breath was still hitching, but he did as his father asked and dried his tears. He gaze was tremulous, and hurt and puzzled, but he'd do what his father wanted. He sniffled again, and wrapped both hands firmly around his brother.

"We gotta be strong Sammy," he whispered, not really understanding why it was. "Just like Daddy."

John closed his eyes, not wanting to see his silently shaking son who was striving so valiantly to be what his father needed, to be who his family needed. John cursed himself as he silently begged both God and Mary for benediction.

Sam couldn't stand it any more.

"Please tell me that my father did not just ask a grieving four-year-old to suck it up. Please tell me that he didn't make a hurt and confused little boy feel bad for crying at his mother's funeral for fuck's sake! How could he do that to his son, how could he…?"

Sam stuttered to a stop, stunned at what their father had done, angry all over again.

Sam, the only Winchester still capable of tears, had tears streaming down his face.

Sam was hunched in upon himself as the memory finally faded around them. His hands were over his face, his tears flowing freely, unashamedly down his cheeks. His lack of embarrassment at his own 'weakness' truly marked him as Mary's son.

"How…" Sam tried again. "How could he do that to Dean? How could anyone do anything so monstrous? He was _four_…!"

"Sam," Chris' tone was gentle. "I think your father didn't know how to cope. Remember, your mother's death was his first exposure to anything violently and utterly supernatural, and he was afraid – he was afraid it could happen again and afraid he wouldn't be ready. And soldiering was what he knew. And he knew Dean would give his all to be anything his Daddy needed him to be."

"But Dean… he shouldn't have had to…"

"Dean's first life lesson is that everything can change just like that, for no reason. One day he was happily playing with his race cars and singing with his mommy without a care in the world, the next day his house is burned out, his mother is dead and his dad who he played with can't cope with him or much of anything any more. And he's only four, he doesn't understand death, he doesn't fully realize that she's never coming back, he doesn't understand that life is sometimes just unfair. He just knows that his mommy is gone. And that everything's different now.

"And what he learns is that he has to strong and he has to be ready and he has to protect and love his remaining family because they too could be gone just like that. He hated going to bed for months afterwards as he didn't really believe your father wouldn't' be dead when he woke up. He loved his mother, he loves his dad and he loves his baby brother. And it's not a hardship to take care of them, it's not a burden, it's a joy because it means he still has them, they haven't left him and he counts every day they're not dead when he wakes up as a blessing."

Sam isn't looking at the memory any more. He isn't looking at the motel room as it takes shape around them again. He isn't looking at Chris, who's desperately wishing that he could offer tangible support, could offer the hug this young man so obviously needed. But he couldn't. He could focus enough to put a comforting hand on Sam's shoulder, but it wasn't enough, and it wasn't what Sam needed.

Sam needed time to think. Sam needed a chance to wrap his head around everything he'd learned. Sam needed to make sense of the no longer absolute framework of his world.

Sam was twenty-three. And as with a great many people that age, he'd had the arrogance that comes with youth that his perceptions of the world were the right ones. And that now that he was an adult, _and_ a college graduate, thank you, that his rationalizations for the behaviours of the people around him were how it was. He presumptuously assumed that he knew the complete picture, that he'd understood where his brother and father were coming from, that he'd had enough of the facts to make a legitimate judgment.

And now, hopefully, he knew better. He hadn't had the full picture, he hadn't known nearly enough, and while his world still had the same structure, the foundation was not as concrete as it had been.

He likely needed time to assimilate all the information he'd been gifted with. He could probably use a stiff drink, a long nap and a hug. He was wrung out, exhausted and not firing on all cylinders right now. He still had tears flowing on behalf of the brother who'd lost so much, so fast and who'd had to grow up way too soon.

Although no time had passed, it had been a bloody long day.

But if any of it sunk in, if any of it was taking root, then it'd be worth it.

Chris just had to see what his student had learned.

Because just as Dean needed his family, Sam needed to be able to 'see' his family for what they were: not a millstone to drag him down, but their own imperfect, flawed, but fiercely loyal safety net against the monsters and horrors that existed.

If Sammy _had_ seen, then maybe _both_ brothers would live to see their thirties.

**o0o**

**TBC**


	14. Chapter 14

A/N: Sorry for the delay. My Document Manager utterly ceased functioning. Since early Thursday I have tried to upload this about two hundred times. Grrr.

I don't own anything Supernatural.

**o0o**

They were back in the motel room and Sammy had moved to the grimy window that overlooked the parking lot, but he wasn't really seeing anything, wasn't focused on anything. While they were finally squarely in the present, Sammy was still focused on the past: Dean's past.

He was astounded by how much he didn't know. If you had asked him last week if he knew his brother inside and out, the answer would have been an unhesitating 'yes!' and he would have been utterly assured that he knew all there was to know. Which after his 'lessons' was abjectly not the case. He apparently didn't know his brother at all.

Well, that wasn't true. He _did_ know his brother; he still knew Dean probably better than any other living breathing human being on the planet – barring, of course, the occasional non-living, non-breathing figments of literary imagination – but he had fallen into the trap of believing what he saw, and of only seeing what he wanted to see. One of the first lessons their father had taught them, one of the most basic tenets of survival, was camouflage, blending in. And Sam had forgotten that Dean excelled at being what people expected, including him. Especially him. And their father. Dean filled the big brother role and the good son role so well, that both Sam and John were guilty of assuming that that was all there was. But as Chris had taken such self-satisfied glee in pointing out, there was more to Dean than meets the eye. Much more.

He was smarter, obviously, than Sam gave him credit for, and way more devious too. With the blinders removed, Sam cast an eye over many of their interactions and games and playtimes, and realized that Dean had been working survival and hunting lessons into the mix for as long as he could remember. And not only that but Dean was subtly subverting all of their father's training by easing up on the youngest Winchester and by allowing as many opportunities for Sam to be his precious 'normal'. He tried to let Sam have as many untainted by paranormal moments as possible while still keeping Sammy safe.

He'd never appreciated what a balancing act his big brother's life had been. Dean had had to juggle school and home and hunting; he'd had to learn to manage taking care of Sammy, cooking and doing laundry, studying for tests and homework, and learning how to identify and nullify different spirits, demons and possessed persons. And he'd been the primary caregiver and patch-er-upper for Sammy way more than any normal big brother. And in later years he'd been the buffer between the two warring Winchesters and had had to work hard to keep the family together – a task he'd ultimately failed at when Sam left for college. He had also somehow had to plot his own life and make his own mark, a feat which he hadn't quite managed as he'd always seen his primary role as defined by his brother and father.

And he didn't seem to want more. He didn't feel colossally gypped. He didn't hate their dad, their lifestyle or the fact that they had no lives outside of hunting. He didn't miss being 'normal', whatever that was. He hadn't wanted to go to college – Sam really didn't understand that one.

But if Chris was to be believed, Dean didn't want more, didn't feel gypped, and didn't hate their dad because he had what he wanted. He had his family. What was left of his family was alive and well and he'd had a large hand in keeping it that way. Family came first – even fucked-up, obsession-driven, demon-killing, credit card-scamming, just plain warped family came first. Hunting let Dean remain with his family, it let Dean protect his family, and having to take care of Sam and often John wasn't a pain-in-the-ass as it meant they were still there to take care of. Sam supposed it was because that before today his mother wasn't a real person to him that he'd never really appreciated how lucky he was that no other thing or monster had yet deprived him of any more of his family. He had largely taken his family for granted.

And he'd had the gall to tell Dean that because he was only four when their mother had died that he didn't know what loss was, didn't understand what drove Sam and John. Fuck. Dean's whole life had been coloured by Mary's death too: he'd just reacted by clinging to the family he had left, and by doing everything he could to make sure their family worked and stayed together, stayed safe. Shit.

Sam's life might not have been normal, but he'd grown up in a world of certainty that Dean had never had. Sam had grown up knowing that his father and brother would be there for him, would answer his endless questions, would teach him what he needed to know, and would do everything in their power to keep him safe. He'd never doubted his place in their small, hunting-focused family, or worried that it would all change tomorrow – he'd never lived with the uncertainty and fear that Dean had learned very early on, and had never let go of.

Sure he'd had that assumption that they'd always be there tested several times: the time when he was nine and thirteen-year old Dean had been all but skewered by a possessed crow-bar-wielding carpenter came to mind. As did the time an energy depleting succubus had almost drained Dean dry and it had taken three awful days for Dean to even respond, let alone wake up. But he'd never really believed in Dean's mortality until he'd been shaken by the shape-shifter's corpse, and Dean's electrocution had definitely brought the point home for him. Both his father and brother had always seemed invincible to him, and even seeing the various injuries over the years and learning to stitch some of the worst of those injuries up himself hadn't really shaken his belief that his family would always be there. Somehow.

As much as Sam despaired of being the young one in the family, the truth was that he was always protected, looked out for and watched over. And being the young one had definitely allowed him to escape many of the responsibilities and experiences that Dean had had no choice but to shoulder: experiences like Morse. Man was he glad he hadn't had to face decisions like that. Growing up had been hard enough: Chris had forced him to see how much worse it could have been.

What really got Sam though was the fact of how little of his brother's obstacles that he even knew about. Dean spent every moment of his life protecting Sammy both physically and emotionally. All the things that Dean had been forced to deal with and worry about had never even appeared as blips on Sam's radar: all the mundane things like how to get homework done while watching Sammy and getting ready for a hunt; whether they had enough money for groceries all those times when John was gone. Dean had kept his worries to himself, not wanting to burden Sammy with things he couldn't control or fix.

Sam suddenly wondered what Chris _hadn't_ shown him. Sure he'd said that Dean had never sold himself, had never faced another Morse, but what choices had he had to make to keep Sam safe and fed and looked after. What other sacrifices didn't Sam know about?

Because the one thing that Chris hadn't needed to show Sam, the one thing that Sam knew beyond a shadow of a doubt, was that his brother would do anything for him. Anything. Without hesitating, flinching or thinking twice. Not only did family come first, but Sam came first. Always had, always would. On Dean's scale of importance, Sam was first, John was next and whatever Dean wanted for himself came a distant third. Dean was by no means perfect, but he never put what he wanted ahead of what was needed to keep his family safe and, relatively speaking, content. It's just how he was, and it was a trait that both John and Sam had come to rely on, come to expect and take for granted. Dean _was_ the steady, reliable one who could be trusted to do what needed to be done and get on with it: it made him a great soldier and an awesome older brother. He really was the glue in their little triumvirate. He was what made their twisted trio tick.

Sam still couldn't believe he hadn't wanted to go to college though.

He'd had a perfect opportunity to escape, a perfect out, and he'd just ignored it, just thrown it aside in favour of buying his car and continuing with the hunt. And even having seen the memory of Dean's justification for not going, having heard him say that it didn't have as much to do with leaving the volatile combination of John and Sam to cope on their own, Sam knew that the fact that thirteen-year old Sam and their increasingly obsessed father were at odds more and more with Sam questioning the hunt, their lifestyle and most of John's decisions at every turn, had to have factored heavily into Dean's choice. Dean was all about family, and even the specter of his own death before he was thirty couldn't …

Wait. Hold up. His own death? Before he was thirty? What the fuck..?

"Dean's going to die before he's thirty? What the hell is up with that? Just because he decided not to go to college, because he decided to keep hunting? That's not right, that's not fair. That's…"

"That's part of the reality that's Dean's been living with every day for the last ten years." Chris cut off Sam's diatribe. Chris now looked like Giles in his tweedy librarian phase from the early seasons of Buffy, and was speaking in a calm rational tone, his cultured British accent more pronounced. "Do you want to know how your brother can live, knowing the exact date and time he'll die? He was pretty shook up when we told him, but he's managed somehow. I'll give you a hint: it's the same way he's lived every day since his mother died. He's lived every day not expecting anything, not even expecting that both you and your father will necessarily be there when he wakes up, so he has had to make the most of every minute he does have. And so he makes the best of a very difficult situation and he just adapts to whatever environment he's in and tries to make things as smooth and painless, and in your case, as normal, as possible. It's all he knows how to do.

"He keeps expecting the rug to be pulled out from under him, so when it isn't he's happy and grateful. Which mean that the things that you think that he must think are a burden and onerous, are actually things and chores that he revels in and savours each moment of being a family and being together as he knows it could all disappear, like that.

"So, are you listening here, Sammy? You were never a burden, you were never a chore – yes you were a pain-in-the-ass, and a sometimes utterly normal pesky younger brother, but Dean wouldn't have changed a moment of it – okay maybe the moment when you threw up on the girl he was trying to impress in tenth grade – but he loves being part of your family as weird and un-normal as it is. And even though he didn't have a choice about hunting, he worked hard at it as it was something that the family did together and if he did it well, it meant that you'd all be alive to do it together for that much longer. It was a win-win situation for him.

"And I'm not The Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come, I only do the past, so I don't know if Dean's best before date has been changed or altered already or what will happen to him in the future. But we, my siblings and I, never undertake this process if a change can't be affected, and while 'Bob' isn't here to tell us, I think that understanding and believing in your brother will be enough to keep you together long enough to push that expiration date back by several years. I'm guessing here, as I don't know the future, but I believe that if you don't give up on your brother, you'll both live longer."

Sam looked stunned again. It was hard for him to accept that Dean was content in their crazy quest, that he wasn't bitter or angry at their dad for robbing him of a carefree childhood of forcing him into a mold whether he liked it or not.

But Dean didn't hate John, he liked hunting and he loved his family. In his own way Dean was happy. Hunting wasn't Sam's thing, it was something he did as a means to finding the piece of hell-spawn that killed Jess, but it wouldn't be what he'd do forever.

He might however do it until Dean had safely turned thirty… it was only another three years away…

It was something to think on. He didn't know quite what to make of it all. He wasn't sure what he'd say to Dean the next time he saw him. How to acknowledge all that Dean had done for him, how to say thank you and I'm sorry without turning it into a dreaded chick-flick moment. He turned away from Chris, and turned back towards the window…

"Wha…?" Sam stared at his bed, at his pillow, stunned yet again in a very short time. But stunned in a good way. A very good way. Sam could feel the grin forming on his lips, threatening to overtake his entire countenance. There were Mickey Mouse ears on his bed… which could only mean…

Disney World. They were going to Disney World. To a place Dean would normally have avoided like the plague, citing that anyone who voluntarily dressed up as a giant mouse _had_ to be possessed. They were going to Disney World. For his birthday.

Because Dean _did_ love his little brother, and Dean understood his little brother and Dean would do anything for his little brother: including braving the crowds the line-ups and the larger than life Donald Ducks to give his brother a piece of normal, a perfectly ordinary couple of days out of their screwed up world.

Apparently the dreaded chick flick moment would start with a huge hug and some Mickey Mouse ears.

Sam's grin became a full-fledged smile as he tried to imagine Dean in mouse ears… He laughed out loud as he turned back to Chris, hoping for the final favour – and he finally recognized the gift he'd been given for what it was: the almost unheard of opportunity to truly see his family, and finally an almost impossible chance to get to know his missing mother. It was the chance of a lifetime.

Sammy couldn't wait.

**o0o**

**TBC**


	15. Chapter 15

I don't own Dean or Sam… Not that I want to _own them_ per se, but visitation rights would be nice…

**o0o**

Sam was enthralled. Chris had shown him himself and his mother, just after he'd been born, when he was first home from the hospital, his mother discretely breastfeeding him, singing to him off-key – Pink Floyd no less – and just generally loving and taking care of her newborn son. It wasn't all hearts and roses: Chris also showed him Mary cussing at him when he was colicky, Mary exasperated when she burnt dinner while trying to feed Sam and keep Dean out from under foot, Mary trying to appease both sons when young Dean was jealous of the attention the baby was warranting. Dean definitely got his love of heavy metal and his expletive expertise from his mother. Sam could also see that Dean really followed in his mother's footsteps as the natural caregiver in the family. Mary had been an instinctive mediator between the men in her life and had maintained the balance of the differing needs of her sons and her husband.

Because Sam, in learning of Mary, had necessarily learned about John. Sam finally got a glimpse of his father in the pre-hunting days, before everything literally went to hell, before he had lost his wife and before he even knew there was anything supernatural out there. He was literally not haunted at this point in his life. He was just a middle American man with a young wife and family, who's biggest worry was likely something ordinary, such as paying the mortgage or whether to buy a new car. Sam didn't even know what his dad had done for a living before hunting; he'd vaguely thought his dad was a mechanic or engineer of some sort.

Chris hadn't shown Sammy his father to the same degree as they had focused on Mary, but the glimpses Sam had were astonishing. He didn't know this man either. This energetic, carefree man who wore sports jackets, and barbequed on Sundays and who liked to read The Wind in the Willows to his sons at bedtime was almost as much an enigma as Mary was. Sam could remember his father reading to him and Dean, but it was an early memory and was a task that Dean had almost exclusively taken on as he learned to read himself. Seeing his father in this destined to be short-lived phase of his life, made Sam ache for the man his father had become.

They had all lost so much the day Mary had died. Sam still wished he'd had a choice about participating in one-man's obsession, but for the first time he almost understood why John had done it. Because for the first time in his life, his mother was more than just a tragic figure: he'd finally seen her as she actually was.

He closed his eyes, as gratitude to Chris and to Dean for allowing him this opportunity overcame him. Because Sammy knew that while Chris was the one with the powers, and Chris was the one who could pick and choose what to show Sam, that none of this would be happening if Chris hadn't cleared it with Dean first. Because Dean, who had apparently been through his own ghostly visitations and who knew what a life-altering experience it could be, had likely decided that the benefit to Sam outweighed the risk to himself and to their relationship. Because Sam _did_ know his brother and while the vaunted Ghost of Christmas Present wasn't present he would bet that Dean was in the bar wondering if he'd done a good thing, and hoping that Sam would still respect him for all the dubious choices he might have made. Sam had often taunted Dean as being the 'good little soldier' and being pathetic for blindly following orders. And now he saw that Dean hadn't been wearing blinders, he'd made his decision consciously and had willfully put family first in the only way he knew how. And Dean was likely wondering if Sam would think less of him for not being more of his own person, for giving up on Sam's ideal of college, for not wanting more than he had.

And even knowing that it might diminish himself in the eyes of his brother, even knowing that Sam would never see him in the same way again, and even knowing that his private moments and motives would be exposed, Dean had opted to let Sammy see, as he yet again put his brother first. Dean who was an oddly private person, who didn't want to burden Sammy and who wanted to let Sam have as normal a life as he could, had allowed this invasion into his past, this unflinching light to be cast on his actions as Sammy finally saw his brother as a person and not just an extension of Sam, or John or even Mary. Dean had known that this could change everything between them, and had allowed it to happen anyway, as it was something that Chris and company had thought that Sammy had needed. And once again, Sammy's needs came first. No matter the personal cost to Dean.

Sam had no idea what he would say to Dean when he finally came back to the motel room, but if anything the experience had made him appreciate his big brother all the more. And not just as his big brother, or as their father's son, but as Dean, himself, warts and outdated music and all.

It had been a very enlightening day.

There was one more memory taking shape around him. Sam was captivated by the sight of Mary in baggy sweats and a Boston Bruins hockey jersey as she gently rocked her infant son to sleep. She was humming what might be 'Beth' by Kiss as she gently tamped out her cigarette and was about to put his young self down in a baby carriage that was pushed up against the side of the couch. The carriage was obviously doubling as a second crib. Mary leaned over to put Sammy down, gently placing Sammy in the carriage. "Sweet dreams, Sam-sam."

"Sam-sam?" newly-minted twenty-three-year old Sam asked Chris. "She called me Sam-sam?"

"That was what Dean started calling you when you were first brought home from the hospital, although in Dean's case it was more like: "Samsamsamsamsam'. Your mother just shortened it. She also called you Sam-son, Sam-Mule when you were fussing, and Sir Cryalot when you woke your brother when he was trying to nap."

In the memory, Mary had pulled the carriage to the kitchen door so she could watch Sam as she started to make dinner. She disappeared into the kitchen and the memory faded around them.

"I sill can't believe she smoked! And liked Iron Maiden, Led Zeppelin, and Black Sabbath."

"She also drank beer, had a huge crush on Harrison Ford, and had a small tattoo on her ankle of a stylized sun. She was going to get a star put on her other ankle, but…"

"She died." And Sam felt fresh tears well up in his eyes.

"Yes, she died." Chris paused to give Sam time to collect himself. He continued gently. "She died and everything changed, but her influence in both yours and Dean's life lives on. You have her smarts and her tenacity and her temper. Dean has her need to put family first, and definitely learned his love for classic heavy metal at her side. You are both your mother's sons, and both are so much more. Yes, her death was a defining moment in your lives, but it is not the sum total of who you are. You've always known that _you_ were more than what your mother's death left you with. Hopefully now you realize that _Dean_ is more than just what you expect to see.

"I don't need to tell you your brother's not perfect…" Sam's inelegant snort acknowledged the vastness of the understatement, "…but hopefully you see that he's found his own niche and just needs his family to need him to be happy. Ok, and he likes killing as many sons-of-bitches as he can. Because he can, and it has to be done. Hopefully you see that he's a real person with his own motives and needs, and not just your dad's clone."

Chris, who now looked like Michael Landon from his Highway to Heaven stint, merely waited as Sam processed what he'd seen. Sam didn't know it but the need to work things through and to categorize and label each experience was very Mary too. He didn't think there was anything more he could do: the rest was up to Sammy.

Sam, for his part, had sat down on the edge of his bed and was idly running his hand over the Mickey Mouse ears. The new knowledge of his brother mostly jibed with what he knew: the 1540 on his SATs still blew him away; but the rest of it fit what he knew about Dean. And it all made sense. And what he knew now explained so much about his brother, explained why he was the good little soldier, why he tried to be the ultimate big brother, why he took his role in their family so seriously.

He was still a colossal pain-in-the-ass who could push Sam's button's like nobody else; in fact Dean had made a specialty of pushing everyone's buttons, but he could do that because he knew instinctively what people needed and could divine what drove them and just what those buttons were. And while Sam had always known that Dean used whatever weapon in his arsenal – verbal or otherwise – that would deflect attention away from Sam and onto himself in times of trouble, he'd forgotten that the sarcasm and abruptness _were_ defense mechanisms and should not be taken as all there was to Dean.

Man his brother drove him nuts. But he wouldn't trade him for anything: not for John's approval, not for the keys to the Impala, not for the death of the thing that killed mom and Jess. Dean was the one constant in Sam's life, more so than their father, more than hunting. And he'd take him just the way he was. Well, mostly.

Sam looked down at the mouse ears he was holding. Heh. Apparently Dean would take him, just as he was, to Disney World. How cool was that?

Sam's grin re-appeared as he contemplated the possibility of getting Dean to pose with a giant Mickey Mouse – with Snow White or Cinderella, sure, but with a giant Sponge-Bob or…

Sam's merry musings were interrupted by the sound of the key turning in the motel room door.

Dean!

Sam hastily stood, shoving the mouse ears behind him, not knowing what to expect. He gathered his courage to the sticking point, took a deep breath to calm himself and prepared to finally see his brother, for what like felt the first time.

Dean stood in the open doorway, calmly looking at his brother and Chris. Calmly unless you knew him well enough to see the rigid stance, the tension in the line of his jaw, the banked fear in his eyes as he awaited his brother's judgment. Chin up, back straight, braced for the worst, he steadily met his brother's eyes.

And waited.

**o0o**

**TBC**


	16. Chapter 16

Still don't own 'em.

**o0o**

Sam didn't know what to say. How to say: "I thought I knew you, but man was I wrong!' without offending his brother. How to even begin to say: "sorry, I always just thought you were a dumb jerk, pain-in-the-ass older brother who couldn't possibly understand me, or where I'm coming from" without sounding like an arrogant prick. How to say: "yes, Chris showed me all your deep, dark secrets, but I don't think you're a horrible person, bitch" without any negative overtones colouring his words.

And Sam realized, as Dean could not, that Chris _hadn't_ shown Sam all of Dean's deep dark secrets: he hadn't seen the first monsters Dean had killed, he hadn't been shown any of Dean's perceived failures, he still didn't know why Dean's eyes had bled. Chris had been very careful in what he showed Sam, he'd stayed away from the hunts and the training and the eventual fights between the various Winchesters over the years. Chris hadn't shown Sam much of their family 'job'; he'd shown Sam more of just his family.

And Dean had no idea which of his secrets and choices had been revealed, didn't know how he'd been portrayed to his younger brother. Dean, who prided himself on being self-sufficient, on not leaning on anyone, even Sammy, more than he absolutely had to, and who had made an art form out of appearing to calmly accept and adapt to the consequences of his decisions and actions, had left himself open to Sam's criticism of the way he was, the way he acted and the choices he'd made.

He'd left himself completely vulnerable to his brother. And Sam knew Dean hated it. Hated feeling exposed, hated the perceived weakness, hated putting himself at risk with no weapons at hand to save himself if his brother didn't respect him any more. If his brother was ready to cut him loose again.

One of the many things that Chris had said crystallized for Sam at that moment: Dean was waiting for the rug to be pulled out from under him. Again.

Even though Dean should have known that Sam would always believe in him, even though Dean should have been able to be sure of his brother's continued belief, continued love and respect, Dean was standing there uncertain, braced for the worst, because he'd never had the luxury of being sure about anything.

Even though they'd grown up together, even though they'd lived through the same awful events, Sam had grown up knowing he was cherished and protected and knowing that John and Dean would provide their own peculiar brand of stability. More so Dean than John. Especially Dean. Dean had never had that. Dean had grown up perpetually waiting for the other shoe to drop. He was still waiting.

And now he was waiting for judgment, for his sentence to be passed, and was shoring himself up to deal with whatever Sammy offered him.

And _that_ hurt. It hurt that Dean had no expectations of Sam, had no faith, didn't have enough trust in his younger brother. Really Dean should know better…

Ok, maybe he should stop thinking about himself and about how _he_ saw things and realize that just Dean standing there _was_ Dean displaying his own level of trust, that Dean was still giving to Sam, was still putting Sam first and would abide by however Sam defined their continued relationship.

It was an awesome amount of responsibility to shoulder and it humbled Sam that Dean would let anyone have that much power over him. But Dean's world was still Sammy first, John second, Dean last, so he'd take what Sammy gave him and adapt accordingly. Even if it meant going their separate ways.

Man, that still didn't mean that Sam had any clue what to say…

"You got 1540 on your SATs? Man, I can't believe it." Oh great, start with Dean's rejection of Sam's ideal 'get-out-of-jail-free' card.

Dean spared a narrowed glance at Chris, and just raised an eyebrow, still waiting.

"Yeah, so?"

"So, I didn't know that…" Sam trailed off lamely. Dean just continued to look at him. Waiting.

He took a deep breath, tried again.

"So… so Mom called you 'sunshine'"

Ok, that was better. Dean's mouth quirked up at the corner.

"Yeah, she did, 'Sam-sam'. What of it?"

"Well, I didn't know that. I didn't know she liked heavy metal, I didn't know she wasn't much of a cook, I didn't know she smoked."

"Yeah, well, she did."

Yep, this conversation was going nowhere fast. Sam would just have to come right out and say it. Subtle didn't work with Dean.

"Dean, I still respect you, dude. I still think you're the most awesome big brother anywhere, I don't think any less of you, no matter what Chris showed me."

Dean didn't say anything back, but his stance relaxed minutely, and a flash of moisture in his eyes was quickly blinked away as the cocky, arrogant infuriating persona surfaced: Dean's coping mechanism for anything too emotionally volatile.

"Was there ever any doubt, dude?"

But Sam didn't want to hear it, didn't want the façade, he wanted his brother: the one who had pretended there were enough Christmas presents for the both of them, the one who made training fun and who made learning Latin incantations into a game, the one who never let Sammy know that human monsters like Morse existed.

He cut Dean off before he got any further.

"Shut up, jerk. Chris didn't show me anything about hunting, anything illegal or anything like where you learned to hustle pool. He showed me about you and Dad trying to take care of me in your own ways. Both of you. He showed me that you didn't give up on college because of me and dad, you just didn't want to go, and you didn't have the same safety net as me as you were busy being _my_ safety net. Chris was trying to show me that yeah, you _are_ a good little soldier, but it's a choice that you made willfully, and that it's not all that you are."

Sam glared at his brother as he paused to collect his thoughts. He held up his hand to forestall whatever Dean was about to say; he wasn't finished yet.

"Chris showed me that you've been looking out for me my whole life, and not just since the fire. He reminded me that it's because of you that I even _know_ what normal is. And he reminded me that it's because of you that I know what _family_ is – because of you _and_ dad, in his own way. And he showed me how lucky I was to have two people constantly having my back my whole life. And he showed me how much work you put into making sure we _were_ a family.

"I've always kinda thought that I was a burden, holding you back and that if you hadn't had to worry about me, then you could have gotten out a long time ago, and that you must resent me for taking up so much of your time and energy and must have hated having to always worry about whether I was looked after, babysat, fed, tucked in and put to bed, amongst all the other things you had to do. And Chris showed me a lot of those other things you had to do, like laundry and cooking and grocery shopping. All those times when Dad left us and went hunting by himself to keep us safe from things like Hell Hounds, and left you to take care of me, keep up with training and school and deal with creeps like Morse."

Dean was too well trained to flinch, but he broke eye contact with his brother and started to turn to the window.

"No, Dean, you don't get it." Sam stopped Dean's turn away with a hand on his shoulder; he needed his brother to hear him, to listen. "What Chris showed me is that we look out for each other, that dad in his own fucked-up way _did_ take care of us, and _did_ teach us how to take care of ourselves. I wouldn't wish our lives on anyone, but I know that all three of us have done the best we could under the circumstances. And we're family. Ok, we're not anybody's idea of an ideal: we're not Ward and Beaver and Wally Cleaver, but we're not the Menedez brothers either. We just are.

"And I know now I wasn't a burden, that I wasn't what was keeping you back. You didn't want more than what you had, you just wanted your family. Your family which included one emotionally retarded, revenge-obsessed but doing the best that he can dad, and one constantly questioning, never satisfied with what he had, pesky younger brother. And I get now that you don't feel gypped, cheated and that you don't need normal, whatever that is. You have what you need, and you like what you're doing. I get that."

Sam paused, remembering his family, truly remembering. Some of the wonder of his enforced 'education' coloured his next words.

"Man, Chris showed me so much more of our family. I saw mom, for the first time as a real person, I saw Dad before the demon came, I saw you as a goofy carefree kid, and I watched you become the care-laden, can take on anything and anyone kick-ass soldier and older brother. It was amazing. I never knew… Man, there are so many things I didn't know, and I thought I knew everything, you know? But I didn't. Did you know that mom had a tattoo on her ankle? And that she couldn't sing but dad could? I never knew that she liked heavy metal too, and that you grew up listening to it for the first four years of your life – I always just thought you had lousy taste in music; now I know that it's something that reminds you of mom, something that ties you to her."

Dean's startled glance at Sam was the only indication that Dean hadn't ever really thought about _why_ he liked heavy metal, it just was. But it made sense. And he did know about the tattoo, it was a tattoo for him after all, but like a great many memories from childhood he hadn't thought about it and it had drifted away as more time had passed. Now that Sam had mentioned it, he could easily see it, mostly bluey-green ink on the pale skin, a stylized sun with flames reaching out. A tattoo that she told him would always remind her of him. He looked away as his eyes threatened to water. His mama had been one of a kind. And now Sammy knew that too.

He wondered what tattoo she would have gotten for Sammy. Maybe a big question mark.

Dean fought the smile that wanted to take over his face and felt himself relaxing. It was going to be ok. His trust in Chris hadn't been misplaced, it apparently _had_ been worth it, and it seemed to have given Sammy some badly needed answers. He'd never been able to really convey to Sammy all that his mother had been, he'd never been able to capture his mother for Sammy to understand just what he and John, and Sammy too, had lost. But Sam had finally seen his parents as real people and not just as a reflection of what one indelible moment in 1983 had made them. Hopefully this glimpse into their family would let Sam see that he wasn't alone, that in a world filled with demons and evil that his family would be there for him as best they knew how, and that he wasn't the only one who'd had to learn to cope with more than anyone should ever have to. And maybe now Sam would stop whining about what he didn't have and start appreciating all the things he did have.

But Dean wasn't holding his breath. He wouldn't be Sammy otherwise.

Sam had stopped his revelations and still had his hand on Dean's shoulder, but his gaze wasn't focused on his brother any more, he was still looking at the past: their past. Dean watched as his little brother's face broke out into a true, unguarded smile. He watched as Sammy for once thought of his own family without pain or anguish. And he watched as Sam slowly came back to the present and beamed at his older brother.

Dean spared another quick glance for Chris, who knowing Dean as he did, smirked and turned slightly away. Dean looked back at his brother, who didn't hate him, who wasn't going anywhere yet, and who still had his back, even when Dean would rather be left alone.

And Dean put Sam's need for reassurance ahead of his own need to avoid chick-flick moments, and gave Sam what he needed the most: a hug. A fierce, bone-crushing, life-affirming, we're both still here, damnnit, hug.

Oh, who was he kidding: they both needed it.

Chris silently watched as the brothers proved one of the Winchester credos: that actions really did speak louder than words. He smiled softly to himself as he was a rare witness to a true moment of understanding and equanimity between the brothers.

He mentally congratulated himself, and quietly faded out of the room. His work here was done.

**o0o**

**THE END**

there will be an epilogue


	17. Chapter 17

I usually deplore lengthy A/Ns, but I would be remiss if I did not take this last opportunity to thank all my wonderful and generous reviewers: every review, regardless of length, was treasured. Your support, encouragement and thoughtfulness were invaluable and divinely rapturous each and every time. And thank you to all my readers. Thanks for sticking with this crash course in Dean 101. I hope you've enjoyed this as much as I have. Thanks everyone.

I'll take Sexy Supernatural Siblings, for $1000, Alex.

**o0o**

Sam couldn't believe they were actually at Disney World. Was still pinching himself even though they'd been here three days already.

Three days of avoiding the hoards of screaming tots in the kiddie sections, three days of mind-blowing roller coasters, three days of Space Mountain and the Tower of Terror. Three days of Dean trying desperately to look cool and unaffected while being hurled around twisting roller coasters, three days of cleaning up at the frontier shooting gallery only to give away the stuffed animals to the first pretty girls that passed by. Three days of Dean charming women of all ages, except for Minnie Mouse and Dora the Explora.

Heh. Three days of teasing Dean about the height requirement for the rides.

And three days of Dean muttering "Christo" every time a park employee in a cartoon costume came near him.

He hadn't managed to persuade Dean to pose with any of the oversized characters yet, but he was keeping the pic of the two of them and Snow White as future blackmail material.

Disney-fuckin'-World. Man. It was everything he'd hoped for.

Sam had studied the website daily since he'd found out, he'd charted out what rides he'd wanted to go on, and he'd printed off a list of the things he wanted to see and do and a detailed schedule of what events and shows were on when.

An itinerary that Dean had promptly torn up on their first day at the park and told Sammy to live on the edge, and just wing it. Sammy had forlornly watched his carefully constructed plans go into a nearby recycling bin, and had briefly mourned its passing. And had bitten the proverbial bullet and had done it Dean's way.

It was one of the easiest decisions he'd ever made.

They'd been to Epcot Center, the Magic Kingdom and the Animal Kingdom. Today they were going back, trying to see what they'd missed, trying to soak it all in before they left tomorrow. Sam still couldn't believe Dean had set this up for _five_ days. Five phantom-free days. Five days of no research, no ghosts, no talk about demons or goblins. Five days of no cell phones, which meant five days of no possible jobs or interruptions. Dean wasn't even checking his messages, he was just living in the extremely normal present, with his baby brother.

The closest they came was the haunted mansion. Which they'd both scoffed at and rolled their eyes at and then promptly tried to automatically nullify the spooky spirit who'd popped up behind them.

The park employee had not been amused by the double doses of holy water in his face.

Other than that, it had been a complete vacation from the paranormal and supernatural.

Although Dean swore that anyone who voluntarily went on the "It's a Small World" ride had to be some kind of demon-worshipping Hellspawn. Or some other relative of Meg's. Heh.

Disney World.

Sam had even caught Dean humming a certain truly annoying song from said aforementioned ride. When challenged about succumbing to the evil influence of all things Disney, Dean had flatly denied any such action and had said that it was the annoying seven year old in front of them who'd been humming.

Yah, right. More like an annoying and seriously in denial twenty-seven year old.

A twenty-seven year old who was reluctantly having a good time. Reluctantly because putting aside what he considered his duty and responsibility for five days did not sit well with Dean. Reluctantly because he had nothing more than holy water to ward off the evil Emperor Zurg and the thousands of screaming little minions of Satan masquerading as innocent children.

But he'd sucked it up, let his natural aversion to crowds go and was having a pretty good time, actually, all in the name of brotherly birthdays.

And Sam appreciated it. Because, while Chris had proven beyond a shadow of a doubt that he hadn't known all there was to know about his brother, that he hadn't really understood what drove Dean at all, ok, that he'd been incredibly willfully and utterly _blind_ about his brother, Sam _did_ know some of the fundamentals: such as Dean and crowds don't mix. And Disney World was really not Dean's thing. Yes he liked the rides, loved the roller coasters and thought some of the exhibits and special effects were awesome. But he hated the sheer number of bodies – even if many of them were lovely to look at – and hated the people constantly bumping into them and the overall noise – although when the noise was the Aerosmith Rock and Roller Coaster he didn't seem to have a problem with it. And while he was mostly enjoying it, it was nothing he would have subjected himself to if it weren't a gift for Sam.

Of course that didn't mean he didn't let Sammy know exactly how much he hated the crowds, and just what knife he was going to use on the next whiny tantrum-throwing tot, and it certainly didn't mean that he hadn't expounded at all on his theory about the unnaturalness of Giant Talking Mice or Dogs or Sponges. Nope, he was still his usual annoying self.

And Sammy wouldn't change a thing about him.

Because Sam was grateful. Grateful for the time he had with his brother and grateful that he'd have more time in the future. And they would, they both would, he'd make sure of that. But Chris' mention of Dean's death had made Sammy appreciate a truth that Dean had always known: life _was_ short, and it _could_ all change tomorrow. It was a lesson Sam should have known and a lesson that meant that they should cram as much time and energy and, well, _living_, into their lives while they could.

Because they were at Disney World, damnnit. The ultimate Mecca for all things exciting and thrilling. And all things wonderfully, utterly, absolutely _normal_.

It was exactly what Sam had always wanted for a birthday present, and Dean, his imperfect, annoying yet totally awesome and unswervingly loyal brother was exactly the person he wanted to be there with.

Disney World. It was fan-fucking-tastic.

Now… if he could just get Dean into a pair of mouse ears...

**o0o**

**The End.**

Really.


End file.
